


let's conspire to ignite

by AllTheCosmos



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove-centric, M/M, Protective Parent Jim "Chief" Hopper, Recovery, Some depictions of violence, billy living in hop's trailer, billy the badass big bro, chapter counter is super misleading, gratuitous use of the f word, is soft and gentle a useful tag?, memory sharing, so only read if you're into the slow/emotional/meandering type of build up, some Hopper POV, steve harrington loses his shit, the slowest of slow burns, this is going to end up being like 50k and they only kiss like once, very short chapters 'cause i'm trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-01-13 11:19:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 48,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21243239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheCosmos/pseuds/AllTheCosmos
Summary: Billy wakes up after the Mind Flayer possession and starts to realize that this new Hawkins can be just as strange, if not stranger, than the Upside Down.





	1. intro

It’s not as if he ever pretended like he didn’t know what happened. 

Sure, while he was going through it, he might not have put all the pieces together - being possessed by a fucking monster from a different dimension will do that to a guy. But even after he woke up, to doctors praising his improvements, to Chief Hopper slowly explaining the worst of it, to Max still somehow crying to the point that it really started to freak him out; Billy knew what had happened to him. He fucking _lived _ through it, you know? He wasn’t under any illusions that he wasn’t going to be permanently messed up from all of it. 

It’s just, you know, childhood trauma was just so fucking par for the course for him. He’s never really been out of survival mode since, like, the fourth grade. And once you’ve lived with a monster like he has, lived with one that can tear you apart from the inside out and snaps at the drop of a hat; suddenly becoming the monster just felt like the next logical step. 

He remembers, remembers the first time he felt the pull of the full compulsion. Remembers it felt like getting overwhelmed by a shadow, swallowing him up whole and exerting its full control over a body Billy’s worked his whole life for. Only to be used against him. 

He remembers not even connecting the Mind Flayer to the messed up Upside Down, he had no idea what was occurring or why it was happening to him or what to do or how to stop it. He just remembers that first full compulsion, the feeling of giving up, the slide of the monster filling in every dark and broken part of him, and just thinking:

_yeah, this might as well happen _. 

So he woke up. And apparently that was just about enough for everyone else to handle. Doctor Owens patronizingly explained how it’s going to be a ‘long road to recovery’ for him. And Billy would have laughed, would have snorted and cursed and thrown back something heated because when has he never not been in recovery? That’s just his default setting. So Owens can fuck right off with that. And he wanted to tell him that. But his throat still burned from all the screaming. 

Regardless, Billy knew things would change. He knew he would change. Knew that nothing could ever go back to the way things were. And he was fine with that, honestly. It’s not like he had many good things to go back to, anyway. 

What he wasn’t prepared for? 

Realizing that he had just woken up in a very different, an even stranger, Hawkins, Indiana. 


	2. run.

Early morning runs were a hallmark of peak Billy Hargrove behavior. He just fucking liked it. Hawkins was a relatively lazy little town and he could normally put in a full hour run just after sunrise, cruise through any neighborhood he wanted, cut up into some of the trails of the woods, even slice right down the heart of Main St. without anyone ever bothering him. 

This, of course, changed after Everything Happened. 

Which is such bullshit because he isn't even causing a scene or throttling the hell out of some kid or pulling any other hallmarks of peak Hargrove behavior. It’s just a run. A solitary, totally healthy coping mechanism, moment just for himself - and yet, apparently, Hawkins will not let him have nice things. 

Because this morning’s run took a bit of a turn. 

_What the fuck is that?_

Billy jogged his way to the bottom of a small hill, pulling himself to a stop. It was a road he frequented, one he ran almost every morning. It ran perpendicular to the heavily wooded area that marked the northern limits of Hawkins to his left, and open fields of empty farmland spread out on his right. He knew every twist and turn and hill and ill-placed mailbox on this stretch of road, so he was confident in saying he’s never seen that car parked haphazardly on the side of the road before. It was basically in the ditch, the front tires trampling the brush and weeds, even the lights were still on. 

And really, it’s not like he _wasn’t_ going to investigate. 

It only took him a few more paces to identify the car. With a sigh, Billy kicked at the back bumper of the BMW. Why the fuck was Harrington all the way out here? Why was he so terrible at parking? What could possibly be so pressing that the dumbass needed to be in the middle of fucking nowhere at - Billy glanced at his watch - 6:07 in the morning. 

He rolled his eyes, rounding to the driver’s side door and yanking it open. No sign of life but Billy did find the keys still in the ignition. He snorted, _what a fucking idiot_, before reaching down and switching the lights off. 

Pulling himself up and out of the ditch with ease, Billy followed a track of muddy boot prints down into a shallow clearing at the edge of the woods. 

The sight nearly took his breath away. 

Because there King Steve was, in all his floppy hair and morning light glory, completely losing his shit. 

Billy watched at a distance, transfixed, as Harrington ranted and raved at the trees, the ground, the sky, and whatever else was seemingly in his way. He had his arms out, spread wide, pointing randomly and slicing the air like a madman, just going off. And Billy didn’t need to be able to hear what Harrington was actually saying to know that it was absolute, garbled up, nonsense. 

He stomped through some of the twigs and fallen leaves as he made his way closer. He wanted this confrontation but he also didn’t want to scare an already spooked Harrington half to death. Who knows if he was still carrying that Frankenstein bat with him? Billy would like to avoid another close encounter with that thing - at all costs. 

“The fuck you doing out here, Harrington?” Billy called out, casually traipsing the rest of his way down to the clearing, delighting in watching Steve freeze, spin, and glare at him all wide eyed. 

“I, I’m not, I,” Steve sputters out, confused, defensive. And that makes Billy laugh out loud - which was exactly the right move because Steve just gets angrier. Stalks closer. 

“Get the fuck out of here, Hargrove.” Steve snaps vehemently, his whole body recoiling with rage. And it's. It's a lot for Billy to take in. He's really only see flashes of Harrington after everything happened. And it's not like they talked much before. So now here is in, in the middle of the fucking woods, bright like a solar flare and just as fiery, _ yelling _ at him - it's a lot. 

Billy can't stop smiling. 

The moment Billy woke up, it's like the whole town communally decided to give him a ten mile radius. They look down when he walks past, cast pitiful glances behind his back, whisper about his troubles, cross to the other side of the street. It's like he's never stopped being a monster. Not Steve though. Harrington must have missed that community bulletin. Because he seems to be the only one stupid enough to push back. 

It's intoxicating. 

Billy laughs. Feels it in his chest. Bites past the burn that's usually there. 

“You knock a few screws loose?” Billy gestures at his own head, smirks. Because really, he's heard the stories of Harrington’s apparent mental break, he just hasn’t witnessed it in person. And he’s _living_ for it right now. 

Steve huffs, mouth pulled tight in a sneer, and lunges forward. 

“I said.” Steve gets right in his face, and even shoves Billy’s shoulder, “Leave me alone.” 

“Hey, easy killer.” Billy puts his hands up all slow and deliberate, laughs a little in a way he knows Steve will find irritating. But the brunette doesn’t back away. 

In fact, he just sort of stands there. Glowering at nothing. And everything. And that's when Billy clocks it. Having Steve this close, all wide eyed and crazed, it's hard to miss it. The deep, dark circles under his eyes. The pale, slightly sweaty sheen of his face. His hand, raised as if ready to shove him again, is shaking like a leaf. Steve looks lost. 

_Unhinged_, his brain supplies. 

Billy allows himself to look. A full up and down. Takes stock of Steve’s raggedly sweatshirt. Dirtied up jeans halfheartedly tucked into boots, the laces not even done. He tries to get a look at his hands, beyond the shaking, but Steve tucks them quickly into his hoodie’s pocket and twists away. 

Billy glances up at the tree line. Waits him out. 

“You know what time it is?” 

Steve twists back again, nearly losing his balance, and cuts him a baffled look before dialing back into anger. 

“Time for you to fuck off?” Steve keeps his voice low and dangerous, Billy will give him that. But the whole effect is ruined by the fact that Steve looks like he’s three seconds away from falling apart. 

Billy shrugs, “Ballpark guess. What time do you think it is?” 

And Steve actually freezes, caught up for a second at staring back up at the sky. Like he’s actually trying to figure out what time it is. He recovers, pulling his face into something more aggressive. 

“Sunrise.” Steve gestures to it all obvious like its Billy who’s being stupid, “See? Sunrise. I mean, the sun rose, you know, so.” Steve catches himself, waves a dismissive arm. “Look, I don’t care, alright? Just go away.” 

And Steve turns, like he’s about to head back to - whatever it was he was doing before. 

Billy snorts, derisively. “You don’t know, do you?” 

And that gets Steve to stop.

“You don’t. You don’t know what time it is.” Billy states it plainly, needling just a little bit. 

He’s always been antagonistic, he’ll cop to that. He can’t help it, though. Not when it’s this much fun. Because now Steve is turning back, marching towards him again all big and bad and heated like he’s actually going to do something about it. 

Billy slides his hands in his pockets, waits. 

“Who fucking cares?” Steve snarls, “Get out of my face.” 

Billy makes a show out of checking his watch. “It’s just after six.” 

“Jesus, Hargrove.” Steve runs his hand through his hair, twists and pulls, “I’m warning you.” 

“Yeah?” Billy steps closer, flicks at some dried mud near Steve’s elbow, “How long you been out here?” 

Steve forcefully pulls away from him, his voice, just now a whisper. “Stop it.” 

“All night?”

“Enough.” Steve squawks, arms flying out wide, “Fuck, _stop_.” 

Billy steps to him, waits to hold his attention, sweeps his gaze out over the clearing, and bites back a nasty smile. He sets his voice all low and rumbly. 

“Did you sleep out here, Harrington?” 

And Steve explodes. Like the top popping off a shaken soda can, he’s a flurry of movement. 

“What are you gonna do, huh?” Steve pushes right into his space, grabbing a fistful of Billy’s shirt and yanking it. Billy shifts with it. Steve gives him another shove for his efforts, “Why won’t you just leave?” Steve yells in right in his face, teeth bared, jaw squared, all wild energy with nothing to stand on. It’s stunning. 

But then Steve is backing away, only to stare him down, pushing up his sweatshirt sleeves. Planting his feet. 

It’s like a shock to his system, Billy can’t believe his luck. 

“You wanna fight, Hargrove?” Steve challenges, his voice echoing through the trees. “Is that it? Is that why you came out here?” He pulls himself to his full height, wavering, human and broken and belligerent. 

(Billy falls in love.)

“Then do it!” Steve squares up, advances, “Fucking do it! Fight me.” 

It’s clear that Steve is deathly serious, has his eyes all focused and sharp, his shoulders all tight and straight. Stalks forwards with his arms raised. And this is easy, Billy thinks. He wonders why it wasn’t always this easy between them. Because this, this he understands. He lets Steve get close, let’s him huff and puff and yell and stomp around like it’s all going to amount to something. Lets him burn. 

“Fucking fight me you piece of shit!” 

Billy smiles, even lets himself wink, “Sure, pretty boy. Anytime you want.” 

“Then let’s go, alright?” Harrington makes a beckoning motion, glares him down, “Fucking fight me right now.”

“Can’t.” Billy shakes his head, surprising even himself with how apologetic he sounds. 

“And why’s that, tough guy?” Steve sneers, arms out, still all manic energy, “There’s no backing out now.” 

Billy crosses a hand over his chest, smile brighter than the morning sun, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

And Steve shoves him, again. Hard. “You’re a fucking coward.” 

He smiles into it, thinking Harrington’s gonna have to stop with that deep voice before this escalates. 

“Nah.” He shifts, nodding back in the direction of the road, “I just gotta get back to take Max to school.” 

Steve looks entirely unconvinced. So Billy starts walking backwards. 

“But my schedule’s free after that.” Billy offers, ‘cause he’s nice like that. 

“What?” Steve’s face pulls into one of confusion. 

Billy motions between them, “The fight. I’m free for the rest of the day. So, you know,” he shrugs, “let me know whenever you’re ready to get your ass kicked.”

Steve snarls, still just a moment away from snapping, “You think this is some fucking joke?” 

Billy snorts, “I’ve seen the way you fight, Harrington. And yeah, it’s a joke.” 

“You won’t be saying that when I-” Steve starts striding towards him but Billy just throws up his arms, halting him. 

“Whoa, hey. Save it for the fight, man.” He grins, all warm and easy, “No spoilers.” 

And Steve just shakes his head, confused and angry and so entirely himself. He mutters something to the ground below, turning away from Billy with finality. And Billy spares half a second to be a little - curious, yes curious not concerned, as to where the fuck Harrington's wandering off to when his dumbass car is in the other direction. Billy's sure as fuck not from around here but even he knows there's nothing but shallow forests and a fuckton of cornfields in Steve's path. But, you know, not that he cares. 

Billy watches him for a few seconds more before heading back towards the road. 

“Later, princess!” Billy calls out over his shoulder. 

“Fuck you, Hargrove!” Is the shout of a response he gets back. Listens to it cut through the empty trees, echo in the wide open space of the clearing, drift the morning wind, and settle somewhere under his skin. 


	3. u-turn.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopper POV

Hopper gets the call when he’s already knee deep in handling another teenager’s drama. _Jesus_, he pulls the truck’s talkie receiver far from his ear when one of his deputies starts with the hysterics - nervously rambling on about a drunk and disorderly Hawkins student inside the Lucky’s Best Laundromat. Hopper sighs and runs a hand down his face, he doesn’t need more than one guess to figure out exactly who is terrorizing the local place of business. _Honestly, two in one night? Did these assholes plan this?_

It certainly feels that way. 

Hopper weighs his options. He was on his way to drop his latest guest off at the station. Or maybe back at the cabin. Honestly, he hasn’t made up his mind where he needs to take the boy passed out in the backseat of his truck; but protocol and common sense tells him that he _should_ drop the kid off before going out and picking up another one. You know, privacy. Liabilities. Proper procedure. All that shit. But it’s at least another fifteen minutes to the station and the laundromat is just a few streets over. 

And yeah, even though he _should_ prevent the two from interacting at all costs, he also knows that he can’t leave the fucking powder keg that is Billy Hargrove to reign unholy hell down upon the streets of Hawkins for very much longer. He’s not dealing with that mess again. That’s for damn sure. 

Checking the rear view mirror to see if his backseat passenger is still with the living, and yeah the kid is passed out but at least Hopper can verify the rise and fall of his breathing, he rumbles out a heartfelt _I’m not getting paid enough for this shit_ and pulls a U-turn to head back in the direction of the laundromat.


	4. dry.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Billy tilts his head back and watches the fluorescent lighting swing and swirl above him. It makes him dizzy. He stumbles once, twice, takes an exaggerated step forward to brace himself against the sink, and curses. He hadn’t even had that much to drink. He shouldn’t be fucking staggering around like an idiot. 

Some white hot pain radiates from the back of his head and effectively wipes away all other thoughts. He clutches onto the sink, convinced he might just drop right then and there. And holy fuck, he must have hit his head real fucking hard. Which is just. Great. Just fucking great. He barks out a maniacal laugh, let him have a fucking concussion. That would just make his fucking day. 

He sniffs back more of the blood and spits into the sink. But it’s not stopping. It’s still bleeding; loud, red, obvious streaks down his chin, down his chest, and now spotting up the already grimy bathroom sink in the fucking all night laundromat. Maybe his old man actually broke his nose this time. 

It’s that thought that has him stumbling out of the bathroom. Suddenly unable to handle his reflection in the mirror without actually wanting to vomit. His ribs can’t handle that pressure right now. Billy desperately needs his clothes to _fucking dry faster_ so he can get to the part where he puts them back on, gloriously unstained, and pretends like none of this ever fucking happened. Maybe pass out on top of the folding table again, but the one in the back, hidden from the windows. 

He turns around and stands in front of the wall of dryers, in nothing but his boxers and boots, glaring intently as his jeans and flannel and ripped T-shirt spin rhythmically in the dryer. 

So, naturally, because his life is just one big fucking joke, thats the exact moment the fucking Chief comes strolling into the small storefront, the annoying little bell chiming happily above him, hitting Billy with a stern yet exasperated look. 

Billy just ignores him. Shakes his head and keeps staring at the swirling colors of his clothes. He wasn’t even being obnoxious. He told her he would clean up the blood on the floor. There’s no reason why Ms. Simons behind the counter needed to rat him out so quickly. 

Plus, he’s tired. Tired of this song and dance. Tired of fucking Hawkins. Already tired of this new Hawkins, too. Because he’s still here. Still fucked up. Still the kid that took on the MindFlayer but can’t handle his own demons. Still wholly, bone-crushingly, and spirit breaking-ly tired. Tired of having it thrown it his face exactly how worthless he is. Tired of having the town continually treat him like the big bad monster ready to snap and kill someone if they so much as look at him in the eye. And yeah, well, maybe he is. You get possessed once and suddenly everyone thinks you’re just seconds away from letting it happen again. 

He hears the Chief ’s approaching footsteps but he doesn’t turn around. Won’t. Because he hates this part almost as much as getting his face smashed in. 

“How much time ya got left?” Hopper rumbles out, somewhere to his left. Billy laughs, it’s just a rush of empty air. _How much time does he have left? In Hawkins? It’s still a good six months until he turns eighteen. On this planet? Well, shit, a few hours ago, he would have thought his time was about to expire. Maybe it should have. Maybe it’s about to._

Billy squints up at the machine he dropped his quarters into, tries to focus on the small red numbers. 

“Seventeen minutes.” 

He hears Hopper yank out a plastic chair, flip it around, and drop down into it. 

“Do you need medical atten- ”

“No.” 

“Hargrove,” the Chief stretches the name in annoyance, “I’m not blind.” 

And yeah, with Billy’s back towards him he’s plenty sure what the Chief is getting an eyeful of. He doesn’t respond, though. He hears Hopper sigh again. 

“Are you intoxicated?” 

Billy sniffs and wipes his nose, the back of his hand coming back streaked in dark red, _I wish_. 

“No.” 

There’s a few minutes of blissful quiet. Billy makes the internal decision to pull his clothes out with ten minutes left. There’s only three items. They should be good and dry by then. And then he can get the hell out of here. 

“Alright, so.” Hopper attempts, carries something in his voice like both him and Billy know exactly how this is about to go down. Because it’s always the same. It’s the same line of questioning until Hop gets Billy in the truck. And then it’s only minutes until Billy’s passed out in the back of the station. 

“You wanna tell me what happened this time?” 

“No.” 

“I can’t help if you don’t-”

“Didn’t ask for your help.”

“Yeah, kid. I know.” 

“Can’t you just fuck off?”

“Language.”

Billy blows out a snort and gestures towards the dryer. “I promise I’ll leave all nice and slow when this is done, alright?”

“Yeah?” Hopper huffs too, almost amused, “And where’s the Camaro? Didn’t see it parked outside.” 

It’s a quick flash. The door being slammed in his face. The knowledge of his car keys locked inside the house. 

Billy shrugs. Kicks at the floor. “Guess I’ll just walk.”

“To where?” Hopper intones, and Billy hates him because they both know the answer. 

“I don’t know, anywhere. Who fucking cares, right?” He gestures broadly, feels his voice rising and doesn’t care, “I’ll get out of everyone’s hair, just need my fucking jeans to goddamn _dry_ and I’ll fucking leave, alright?”

Hopper just shrugs, “Ms. Simons said you were bleeding all over and she got pretty concerned.”

Billy laughs, “Yeah, well, Ms. Simons is a -”

“Hey.” Hop snaps, “Watch it. I don’t want to hear it.” 

There’s a couple long minutes of silence. The pain pounds ceaselessly at the back of his skull. He hears himself breathing raggedly, still resolutely staring at his tumbling clothes. Listens to Hopper’s radio crackling. 

“Okay.” The Chief announces and stands up. Billy can sense him moving closer, stopping just a few feet to his left. “Let’s see it.” 

The hackles come up and lock into place, wrapped with barbed wire, soldered together with iron clasps. 

“Just fuck off, man.” Billy _hates_ that his voice is low and shallow. “Seriously. I promise I’ll leave soon.” 

“Yeah, you’re definitely leaving soon.” And Billy closes his eyes, listens to Hopper take a step closer, “Is anything broken? I think you should sit down.” 

“I’m fine, alright? Just fucking leave.” 

He hears himself snapping it out but all he can think about it - 

_What are you gonna do, huh? Why won’t you just leave?_

“Billy.” 

“I said leave me the fuck alone!” And Billy turns, finally, fully facing Hopper to yell at him. And he knows he played right into Hopper’s trap when the Chief just openly stares at Billy’s face. And stares. And stares. Grimaces. Then locks it back up. 

And it's the first time Billy's seen Hopper react like that. And immediately hates it. _Hates it_. Hates it more. Hates it so much fucking more. Can't fucking handle Hopper's eyebrows pulling together like that. Looking at him like that. 

The dryer buzzes. Loudly. 

Hopper sighs, nods in the direction of the machine. 

“Put your clothes back on and get in the truck.”


	5. gladly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopper POV

Hopper watches it all play out from his rearview mirror. And just waits for it to go badly. 

He’s got to hand it to the Hargrove kid, though. After throwing the truck’s backseat door open and being confronted with a passed out Steve Harrington, the kid didn’t even blink. 

Just growled out a low and menacing, ‘_Move the fuck over_.’

And Steve, well, it’s Steve. 

Hopper thought it was all about to go up in flames when Steve just dazedly looked up, peering around bloodshot eyes and muttered all ridiculous and stupid, ‘_Fight me, Hargrove_.’

He only caught a flash of Billy’s smirk from his reflection in the rearview mirror. Watched the blond snap out an annoyed ‘_Gladly_.’ around a sickly sweet smile, before shoving Steve clear to the other side of the bench.


	6. flowers.

Billy really should have shoved Harrington harder. Should have put a little more fire into it so his head would have connect with the window and maybe the dumbass would have gone back to being unconscious. 

But with Steve now drowsily pressed up against the far door, and with the fucking Chief watching him from the rearview - Billy could only play along and slide into the spot he made for himself on the backseat's bench. Slamming the door behind him. 

Leaving a very visible and rock solid amount of space between them. 

But leave it to fucking Harrington. 

Billy watches, frozen, as Steve just lazily shifts around. Like he’s annoyed someone woke him up but not annoyed enough to find out why. Watches him stop and list forward, all slow and cautious. 

“You smell like flowers.” Steve mumbles in his direction. And then promptly passes the fuck back out.


	7. sleep.

On a matter of principle, Billy tells himself he will _not_ fall asleep on the lumpy old sofa he's been relegated to in Hopper’s cabin. 

Fuck knows why the Chief just didn't let him out at the station, toss him in the back room that's surprisingly warm and quiet, like he's done the past few times he's scooped Billy off the streets after a fight. No, instead, he's brought them here. To a too small cabin. In the middle of the fucking woods. Pointing once at the sofa, the Chief grumbled out a quick ‘_Sleep_’ before turning and shuffling his other guest towards an actual bedroom. 

Whatever. Let Harrington have an actual bed. Billy's clearly been tossed around and bruised up but sure, let the princess take it. 

The thing is though, it's also really quiet here. Once Hopper’s thrown Harrington into the extra room, checked on his own kid, and shuffled all exhausted and grumbly behind his makeshift divider, it's … well, it's not bad. But his head is still fucking pounding, his body losing every battle to stay alert, so he's probably not in the correct state of mind to be making judgement calls like that. 

Still. The couch is, you know, alright. Something he can actually stretch out on. There are a bunch of real ugly looking crocheted blankets, too. Even some pillows. And it's. Quiet. 

Billy's fast asleep within minutes. 

But, you know, because apparently Hawkins still won't let him have nice things - that doesn't last too long. 

There's a pull. At the base of his skull. A building tension that cracks and buzzes right under the surface. Billy shifts, craning his neck this way and that to alleviate the pressure. In a sleep filled haze he convinces himself it’s just a hangover from the maybe concussion he suffered earlier in this shitshow of an evening. But it’s constant, almost magnetic press in his mind, and he’s a little too tired to put up with it. Too tired to fight with it. So he doesn’t. 

And within the flash of a blinding moment, he’s at the beach. 

_His_ beach. 

He’s facing the water and almost drops to his knees. Because it’s perfect. It will always be perfect. In that kind of frozen forever in golden honey type of way that makes it sort of hurt to look at. Definitely hurts to look at. He digs his toes into the sand just to feel it breathe under him and takes in a heavy dose of salty air. Feels like collapsing. 

It’s weird. Because it’s real. Entirely real in a way that he knows down to his core that he’s not dreaming, knows he’s not suffering from some side effects of a concussion, knows he’s not apart of another messed up hallucination from the Upside Down. 

He can feel it; in his chest, in the burn of his throat, with clarity he’s not used to knowing - that this is real. 

And the last time he felt this way he - 

Billy spins. 

And there she is. Curly hair to her chin. Staring up at him in her Wonder Woman pajamas. Looking mildly disinterested. 

“Jesus, kid.” Billy breathes out, more than a little taken aback. She has a fucking _ unnerving _ whole kind of vibe about her. Attempting a recovery he snaps back, “What do you want? I was sleeping.” 

El looks at him curiously and snaps her fingers. A portion of the sand turns into a mirage, sparkling and thinning out, revealing a new image within it. And it’s Billy, passed out on Hopper’s couch, an arm thrown over his eyes. Blissfully down for the count. 

“Oh.” Billy shrugs, sort of freaked out. “Still sleeping. Weird.”

And he tries to piece this one together. He really does. He’s a pretty smart guy but this is above his pay grade. And something about spending quality time in the Upside Down reminds him not to ask questions. Of course this girl can just appear in his mind while he’s sleeping. Of course that’s a possibility. She's done it once before so you know, what the fuck ever. 

He would just feel better if she said something. And maybe, like, blinked. 

But she doesn’t. El just continues to stare at him, stare right through him, really. It’s awkward. He doesn't do awkward. 

He shifts, “Uh, you need something?” 

El circles him, slowly. Drawing his attention back out over the open ocean. There’s a rumble. The clouds gather. The sky darkens. The wind picks. Very real sand whips him in the face. 

Billy throws his hands up. 

“Well then, what’s this about?” He shouts a little, having to fight to be heard over the cracks of thunder. It’s annoying. 

“It’s gonna happen.” El states. Like that makes any fucking sense at all. He rolls his eyes. 

“What’s gonna happen?” Billy calls back and regrets it immediately. Because El breaks her stare down, only to close her eyes and twist up her face. 

And Billy hears it. Somehow. Not like the thunder happening on the beach. He hears it in his head. The screaming. Deep, guttural screams laced with pain and anguish echo in his head until he’s grabbing at his hair and shouting at El to turn it the fuck off. 

She does. 

It’s gone as soon as she opens her eyes. 

“I don’t like it.” El shivers. And Billy’s going to need her to start speaking in fuller sentences before he loses his mind. 

He huffed a slightly insane laugh, winded, shaking himself a little, “Can’t say I’m a fan of it myself.” 

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Then stop it.” 

And with that, in the space between one breath and the next, he’s sputtering and heaving awake. Gripping the edge of the old, lumpy couch. Trying to catch his breath in the middle of the night. 

Once he calms down he realizes he can hear it. 

It’s not the fucking horrible screams from the beach, _thank fuck_, but low, murmured groans. It’s the sound of shifting, maybe kicking, like someone is flopping around like a fish on top of the bed sheets and being a whiney bitch about it . __

_ _Rolling his eyes, and feeling like biggest creeper in the world, Billy gets up and starts walking, silently, down the small hallway. _ _

_ _He doesn’t need to guess at who El is concerned about. _ _

_ _The bedroom door that the Chief shuffled Harrington behind looks old and rickety and sort of hangs off the frame. Billy stands right outside and silently fumes. He doesn’t want to do this. But he also doesn’t want to have to listen to it if it turns out that Harrington can actually work himself up into that kind of awful screaming he had to endure earlier. But he doesn’t want to do this. Like. Really doesn't. _ _

_ _Telling himself it’s only because El told him to, and she can like, snap his neck with one jerk of hers, Billy carefully pushes at the door. _ _

_ _It turns out, in fact, that the door is old and rickety as fuck 'cause it lets out this absolute horrible squawk of displeasure, creaking continuously even as Billy tries to stop its motion. _ _

_ _Through the darkness of the room, Billy watches Steve bolt upright in bed. _ _

_ _“Well, great.” Billy gestures in his direction, “You’re not dying. Try to keep it down, Harrington.” _ _

_ _Not about to admit he was stealing himself to venture further into Harrington’s room, and wholeheartedly relieved that he doesn't have to, Billy tells himself to get the fuck out of there as fast as possible. _ _

_ _He turns, and he’s about to slam the door shut just for the hell of it, but something catches in the stretch of light coming in through the high window. _ _

_ _Harrington blinks over at him and Billy’s taken back to that moment in the woods. Because Steve’s all wild-eyed and messed up hair and throwing his gaze around the room as if hoping to land on something he recognizes. _ _

_ _Billy grips the door handle. He knows that look. _ _

_ _“We’re in Hopper’s cabin, it’s -”_ _

_ _“I know where we are!” Steve snaps, whispering fiercely. Annoyance plaguing his voice. But still grabs for his sheets. _ _

_ _Billy shrugs, angry, that’s him trying to help then. “Sure you do.” He mutters, turning back towards the door. _ _

_ _“Your hair is stupid.” Steve grumbles, flipping back over onto the mattress. _ _

_ _Billy can’t stop his unexpected rush of laughter. _ _

_ _He raises his hands, letting them run over the part where he’s buzzed it short on the sides, passes them through the gnarly bunch of lengthy curls still at the top. And smiles wickedly though he knows Steve can’t see it. Shakes his head. _ _

_ _“Night, Harrington.” He offers over a shoulder, shutting the creaky door behind him._ _


	8. bully.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopper POV

Posted up against the far wall of the kitchen, Hopper watches, amused as hell, as El levitates the box of Eggos out from the freezer and moves it all the way over to the living room. 

She lets it hover a good couple of feet above the kid currently passed out on his couch.

With a smile Hopper doesn’t think she knows he can see, she drops it. The box of frozen waffles falling perfectly, and with some expedited force, into Hargrove’s stomach. 

Hopper’s not a fan of the stream of bitten off curses Billy spits out as he’s coming to, sputtering and floundering, immediately ready to fight a box of waffles. But he can’t hold in his huff of laughter either. 

He watches his daughter successfully bully Hawkins’ biggest bully into making her breakfast. 

“Fine.” He observes Hargrove shuffle off the couch, grumpily yanking on a sweatshirt and pointing at El all annoyed and huffy, “But you better make me some coffee.” 

El’s smile is electric. Bright and ridiculous and taking up her whole face. It catches him off guard. He certainly hasn’t seen it in a while. 

Something shifts in his mind, something he’s been thinking about for a while now, and locks into place. 

And Hop thinks, crossing his arms, _yeah, okay, lord knows we should have done this earlier_.


	9. move.

Flicking his cigarette out over the hood of the Camaro, Billy wonders - not for the first time and probably not for the last - why Hawkins, Indiana is purposefully fucking with him. 

Yeah, sure, the town was overrun with interdimensional demons and their precious mall has been blown to smithereens, he gets that. But why did Harrington have to get a new job right next to Billy’s coffee place? That just seems like a completely unfair twist of fate that only a place as shitty as Hawkins could come up with. And you know, entirely on brand with not letting him have nice things. 

He can decide if he’s going to start avoiding this place later, he’s already driven all the way out here. No way he’s not getting his tea just because dumbass Harrington joined up at the fucking Family Video next door. 

So he owns it. Pulls his sunglasses low. Walks casually through the parking lot and past the storefronts. Doesn’t even bat an eye or turn a head when he notices Steve just inside the video store, looking entirely fucking normal and way too goddamn cheery. And it’s sort of weird, honestly, seeing Harrington all presentable and with the land of the living. A perfect counterexample to the bombed out and slightly feral Harrington he’s had to put up with recently. Not that he cares. Really. Not at all. 

He gets his tea. Bats his eyes all prettily and obnoxiously until the lady behind the counter throws in an extra scone. Heads out the shop’s door with a plastered grin, feeling inordinately pleased with himself. 

A feeling that quickly dissipates when he notices the fucking Chief leaning up against his Camaro. Waiting for him. 

“Follow me.” Hopper just nods in the direction of his truck when Billy approaches, and he, well, it’s not like the Chief gives him much of a choice with the way he turns on heel. 

Billy scrambles, just slightly. Takes care to lock the Camaro quick, stuffing the scone in his mouth, and drags his feet after the Chief. God only knows what kind of bullshit is ahead of him. He wants to make a comment about finally getting to sit in the front seat as he pulls himself into the truck, but something in Hopper’s face shuts him down. 

So instead, he inwardly starts to panic as Hop pulls out of the small strip mall parking lot. He plays it back in his head, nothing immediately red-flagging with anything he did wrong. But this has to be about the other night, right? It has to. And what’s Hopper going to make him do? Apologize to Ms. Simons? Clean up the cabin? _Talk?_ Hopper’s face is giving nothing away. 

The anxiety only rackets up when he notices the Chief starts taking the usual turns to get to his house. Billy’s house. Neil Hargrove’s house. 

They turn onto the street that will connect to his street and Billy flips. 

“I’m not. No. No, fuck this.” He can feel it under his skin, feels it settle against his chest, burn right down his throat, making it harder to breathe. Hopper didn’t even ask him? Didn’t even give him a warning? “No. I’m not fucking doing this.” He leans forward, absolutely sure he’s about to throw up and feeling like a coward for it. 

“Hey.” Hopper slows the vehicle, taking the final turn, “He’s not home. Relax, alright?” 

Billy snaps his head up, glaring over at the Chief. 

Hopper just clears his throat. Gestures over his shoulder into the backseat. 

“We’re packing up your stuff.” 

And Billy understands those words, understands them all individually, but can’t possibly fathom what they mean when put together. 

He even looks over his shoulder, numbly, where Hopper pointed. And finds a few cardboard boxes all assembled and ready to go along the back bench. But that doesn’t help explain anything. 

Hopper snaps his out of his daze. 

“Move your feet. Grab a box.” Hopper orders, climbing out of the truck and doing that just. 

Billy does so on auto-pilot. Taking a box from the backseat and mechanically walking up to his house. A cold sense of dread settles over him. He looks over at the crumpled bush by the front door, where Neil sent him ass over tea kettle before locking him out of the house. Did his old man ask the Chief to kick Billy out of the house? Is that what this is? Is it finally over? He’s going to pack up his shit and what? Have someone from the state come and pick him up? And he’s just … gone? 

Hopper reaches over, gently prying Billy’s keys out his white knuckled grip. 

“Take whatever you need.” Hopper instructs, flipping through Billy’s keyring until he finds the house key. “There’s not much space for extra furniture, but we can figure it out.” He leans forward, balancing the empty box against himself to unlock the front door. 

It swings open but Billy is frozen. Staring uncomprehendingly into the abyss of his house. 

He hates it. He gets it, but he hates that he gets it. He just sort of assumed, stupidly, that he would at least know it before he got kicked out. This, springing it on him, it’s enough to break him down. It makes sense, all things considered. And he never loved living here but it still fucking sucks to be kicked out of the only place you have. 

He hates it. He woke up in the hospital not even a fucking week ago. And now this.

He _hates_ it. The anger burns through him. Pinpricks at his eyes. Stings deep and hollow in his chest. He hates it. He doesn’t want to ask. Doesn’t want to fucking ask and sound broken and weak. But he has to know. He needs to know how to protect himself. What punch is coming next. 

He looks up and over at Hopper, tries to aim for something numb and middle distant. 

“Where am I going?” 

Hopper squints at him, turning his head a little. “Oh. I cleared out my trailer. Haven’t been using it much.” He shrugs. And Billy’s about to break, properly break. Being possessed by a monster didn’t do it but this just might so he can’t go through a whole fucking song and dance right now, he just needs to _ know _. 

He tells Hopper as much. Loudly. With lots of curse words. 

And Hopper just puts his hands up, which is a little funny ‘cause he’s juggling a packing box, and snorts. Looking all charmed and maybe a little repentant. 

“Billy.” Hopper starts, “You wanna stay here, then stay here. You wanna move out and into my old trailer, then do that. The choice is yours. I just figured you might,” Hopper trails off, awkwardly gesturing between Billy and the house. 

“Never want to step foot inside this hellhole again?” Billy finishes, and the Chief just, sighs. 

“Yeah. Something like that.” Hopper nods. 

Billy feels like there’s something lodged in his throat. He tries to clear it. Hopper pats him on the shoulder and he nearly shakes apart. 

“I’m not,” Billy tries, stops. Shakes his head. “I, I’m not,” He tries again, closes his eyes. Tells himself to breathe and stop being an idiot. 

He hears Hopper breathe out next to him. Heavy and deliberate. Hears him shift, gently pushing him inside the house. 

“Yeah. You are. You are, kid.” 

They walk inside. 

Billy contemplates the idea that this may be the last time he walks the hall to his bedroom. Can feel sparks building under his fingertips, smoldering under his feet. 

“Now.” Hopper announces, voice cutting through the silence of the house, “Let’s pack your shit and get the hell out of here.” 

There are flames, in his eyes. There must be. A whole fucking wildfire in his chest. He already knows how it feels to burn. Reduced to ash. And wonders if, maybe, it can also feel like this, too.


	10. babysit.

Its Friday night and Billy Hargrove is babysitting. 

That's how he left it with Hopper. You know, after he helped pack up all his shit. Drove him back to pick up his Camaro. Made Billy follow him out into the fucking woods. And dumped him off at the trailer, tossing him the keys to it like it wasn't a live grenade. 

Goddamn. 

Hopper did tell him that there would be rules. And Billy remembers rolling his eyes because of course, there's always rules. 

Billy would admit though, just to himself, that he was a little surprised that Hopper’s only rules were attend family dinners, look after El when needed, no fighting, and no overnight guests. 

*

_“That’s it?” Billy asks, flipping the unfamiliar keys in his hand, looking towards the unfamiliar trailer. Hopper’s trailer. Hopper’s former trailer? _

_“Yeah.” Hop leans against his truck, offers the thinnest of smiles. “That’s it, kid.” _

_And Billy feels like he’s been handed an already lit firework and told not to let it explode. _

_“But,” he starts, shakes his head, “what if,” Billy looks out over the quiet forest around them, the clearing just next to the trailer, the way it overlooks the lake down below, the bright afternoon sun, unfiltered out here, bathing the small deck attached to the trailer in warm light, it’s too much. “What if I,” he trails off._

_Billy’s gaze catches on the door of the trailer, it’s propped open from their previous work of moving in the small amount of his belongings. He knows that just beyond the entrance, in the living space, there’s a new couch Hopper won’t admit to buying. He knows, next to it there’s an empty bookshelf. He knows, down small hallway there’s a bathroom, and that the sink in there now holds his toothbrush. _

_Billy kicks at the gravel beneath his boot. “What if I,” _

_Hopper laughs, bailing him out. _

_“What if you fuck it up?” Hopper supplies, smiling._

_Billy’s throat burns. He looks away. _

_“You heard what I said about the four rules?” _

_“Yeah.” _

_“And you agree to follow them?” _

_Billy hesitates. _

_It’s not like the hard rules to follow, that’s the thing. Well, maybe the no fighting one, but regardless. That’s not what Billy’s asking. He’s asking what’s going to happen when everything eventually goes to shit and Billy ruins this one impossible thing he’s been given. He’ll fuck it up, that’s a given. He just. He can't not fuck it up. But he also can't fuck it up. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t have this if he knows, in the back of his mind, that he’ll just end up back at Neil’s anyway. _

_“Hargrove.” Hopper interrupts his spiraling, steps out from his truck. “Do you think you can follow these rules or not?” _

_Can he? Sure. Will he? No fucking clue. _

_“I can.” Billy grits out, bites back the acidic and poisonous taste if it. _

_“Okay.” Hopper nods, shrugs. “That’s all you need to do, then.”_

*

So that's how he found himself dealing with the reality of the second rule he agreed to. With Hopper stopping by the trailer earlier, armed with burgers he just ‘happened’ to pick up (Billy didn't have it in him to tell him he wasn't going to eat it), and an order. 

“I need you to be at the cabin after school.” Hopper said around a mouthful of burger, Billy cringed, it was disgusting.

“Why?” He raised an eyebrow, pushing around his fries. 

The Chief deadpanned him like the answer was obvious, “El And Max are having a sleepover.” 

Billy rolled his eyes, _Max too?_

Hopper chewed noisily and continued, “I can't be there until late. You're gonna look after them until then.” 

“You're asking me to babysit?” He nearly choked, picking the Chief ’s kid up from school is one thing. But this is, well, just about the last thing he wants to do. 

“Oh,” Hopper smirked, even winked, “I'm not asking.” 

And yeah, Billy knew this was part of the new deal. But really? Him? There aren't any other options? Hopper really wanted him to do this? Billy couldn't resist pointing it out. 

“Think you're mixing up your juvenile delinquents, Chief.” Billy laughed, gesturing at the rest of Hawkins in, you know, Harrington's general direction. “You see, you want the other one. Ya know, tall, brown hair, actually likes looking after those little shits?” 

Hopper looks at him for a moment. Shrugs slightly. “El likes you.” 

And Billy knows a guilt trip when he hears one and he's better than that but _shit_ if Hopper doesn't go right for the knockout punch. He stops to make a show out of opening the wrapper of the burger he won't eat, takes a moment to steady himself because apparently he can't handle the smallest fucking gesture. 

“Yeah, yeah fine. Whatever. Not that I had much of a choice.” 

“You didn't.” Hopper agrees, tossing his trash into the bin, “Be there by 4. I’ll drop ‘em off.” 

And. 

So. 

It’s Friday night and Billy Hargrove is babysitting. 

No party, no date, no rebellious plans to paint the town black. Not even a stolen liquor bottle or a poorly hidden joint in sight. He’s losing his edge. 

Things have been sort of strange, for sure, since Everything Happened, but this, honestly, this is up there with the weirdest. 

He's still stuck on why Hopper would actually want him here. Maybe he just didn't have anyone else to ask? And why isn’t it as miserable and dumb as he thought it would be? 

Because honestly? It’s not a bad gig. He showed up to the cabin at exactly 3:59. Plopped down on the beaten up couch with his book at 4:00. The horn of Hopper’s truck blared incessantly at 4:02, only stopping when Billy marched out of the cabin and mockingly saluted the Chief from the porch. 

The girls came tumbling out of the truck and tearing into the cabin; all fucking giggles and smiles and hushed whispers. Neither one giving Billy the slightest indication that they knew he was there, holding the door open for them, as they walked right past. Hopper didn’t even stop to wave, just threw the truck in reverse the second the gremlins were out of his truck. 

Great. 

So he was back on the couch, full sprawl, elbows propped to hold up his book at 4:04. 

And he stayed like that, unbothered, for about an hour. It was. Nice. Sort of. 

He could, of course, hear the girls the whole time. They immediately absconded into El’s room. And Billy could just make out the sound of them moving around, probably dancing to whatever stupid song was playing on the horrible pop radio station they were listening to. There was the occasional rip of high-pitched squealing or ear-popping laughter that let Billy know they were still alive and still very much annoying. 

He was a little surprised, though, when they both just materialized at the end of the couch. Standing there, staring at him, giving him a freaking heart attack, not saying anything. 

“What?!” He snapped. 

Max frowned at him. 

“We’re hungry.” She stated plainly. 

Billy rolled his eyes, waving in the direction of the kitchen, “You know where the food is, dumbass.”

And now El was frowning at him. 

“We want pizza.” Max set him with a look, crossing her arms over her chest. And then El did the same. 

He looked between them, and laughed. Really? 

“Well, tough shit.” He shrugged, kicking his feet back up on the couch. “Not my problem.” 

Max sighed, loudly. “Billy. Come on.”

“Forget it.” He shook his head, “I ain’t buying you little shits pizza, that’s not happening. And I’m not moving from this couch until Hopper gets back. So either find your own food or don’t. I don’t really care.” 

Max looked like she was about to really lay into him, her cheeks got all red and ruddy and her mouth pulled into a smirk. She even did that thing where she would ball up her fists, as if channeling all her fury before ripping into him. He just smiled like a lunatic back at her. 

He stopped, though. When he saw El moving closer. She took a small step towards him. 

And she had this way, this way he didn’t understand but he could feel, this way where she could just look at you and you - you were stuck. 

She took another step closer still and he watched her as she just reached into her pocket, producing a twenty dollar bill. She held it like she didn’t really know what it was, only that it was important. And offered it to him. 

“Please.” El looked up at him, all puppy dog eyes and curly hair and small smile and fuck, really? Really this? 

Knowing that he never stood a chance, he sighed deeply. And Max cheered. Back to smiles and squeals of laughter and really, these manipulative little bastards should really start working for the government or whatever. 

Max called ahead for takeaway, all smug and irritating as she ordered what had to be the most disgusting pizza in existence. He listened to her on the phone as she listed off all of the toppings her and El wanted on it and resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall. At ‘yeah, anchovies too, why not’ he begrudgingly went to go yank on his jacket, twirling his keys around his finger and wanting to know when, exactly, he lost the high ground. 

That smell was going to linger in his car, _for days_. 

At least the benefit of having her call ahead was that after he drove them back into town, and then all the way across it to get to that one pizzeria that made the only acceptable pizzas here in Hawkins, he could make them go in and wait for it as he stood outside, leaning back against his car, lighting up. 

About halfway through his cigarette he turned, gaze falling back on the glowing neon sign of the pizzeria. It was still light enough outside that he could clearly see into the store, could see Max and El sitting at a table by the window. Waiting for their order, happily chatting away to each other, just the two of them. 

Until they had guests. 

Billy recognized them immediately and wasted no time crushing the rest of his cigarette under his boot, already crossing the parking lot. 

High school boys. Billy could feel his glare go murderous as he stalked towards the store. He could see at least two of them, standing at the edge of the girls’ table, all cool and suave and probably thinking they’re hot shit, chatting up two eighth graders. Fucking creeps. Who fucking does that? 

Just wait until he gets his hands on them, he’ll - 

And. 

Max and El are standing up. And he stops just outside the door as he watches Max, full sass mode, eyes narrowed, smirk fully in place, snap out something to the creeps that makes El laugh uncontrollably. He watches, frozen, as El just grabs Max by the arm, pulls them to the counter, and still watches as they happily, casually, collect their order. Both of them still arm-in-arm, still giggling, as they make their way out of the store. 

They only stop when they noticed Billy, awkwardly hanging out on the sidewalk in front of the storefront. They both, in that real fucking weird way of their’s, just pause and silently look up at him. 

“What are you doing?” Max asks, and it sounds like the accusation that it is. 

And really, what is he supposed to say? Billy Hargrove can’t say shit like _I'd thought I’d beat the shit out of those guys who were messing with you_ \- he can’t have that getting around, he has a reputation to protect. Whatever’s left of it. 

And anyway, apparently Max and El didn’t need the backup.

So he recovers, shrugs with it, pulling himself back into a lazy slouch, easily spinning on his back foot, towards the direction of his car. 

“Took ya long enough.” He calls over his shoulder. 

Max scoffs and flips him off. 

“Here.” She shoves the boxes into chest as she walks by, “El got you one of those stupid salads.” 

Fitting three people plus two pizzas and one salad in the Camaro is a tight fit, and Billy is so ready for this little outing to be over. But before pulling away, he lets his car idle in the parking lot. Considering. Remembers he has someone with literal superpowers in the car. 

Max and El might not have needed the backup this time, but that doesn’t mean Billy can’t still have some fun. He lets himself smile. It’s almost too easy. 

Billy would recognize Kevin F’s godawful Mustang anywhere. What self-respecting guy drove a fucking Ford, right? And now, said Mustang just so happened to be parked so close by. And Kevin F just so happened to be one of the barbarians that thought he could talk up the girls. 

“Hey, kid.” Billy glances up in the rearview mirror. He waits for El to hold his gaze. Then nods his head in the direction of the Mustang in front of them. 

“Sure would be an inconvenience if he got a flat tire, huh?” 

El’s smile is a magnetic, mischievous thing that Billy feels compelled to return. 

With one quick jerk of her neck, the three of them watch all four tires of Kevin’s car blow with a satisfying _pop!___

_ _“El!” Max gasps, hitting her arm and laughing, “Oh my god!” _ _

_ _Billy realizes, just a step too late, that he’s laughing too. He gases it. _ _

_ _“Shit, kid.” He shakes his head, actually impressed, looking back up in the rearview. “I meant, like, one tire. But get after it.” _ _

_ _Billy pulls out of the parking lot to the sounds of Max, completely delighted and amazed, grilling El on what other levels of damage she can inflict on other pieces of machinery._ _


	11. deck.

Billy wakes up all at once. Immediately hit with the feeling that he’s somewhere he doesn’t belong. 

Because there’s a mattress, a full size mattress underneath him. It’s the not the twin sized one he’s used to cramming himself into. There’s a bed, a bed and box spring and an old wooden bed-frame that creaks when he sits up. There’s a window next to the bed. An open window. Cool early morning air blows through it, chills his skin. Billy shivers. Neil hates opens windows. He always kept Billy’s bedroom window locked. 

Billy stands, shakily. Pads across the mismatched rug - not the starched and stained carpet he's used to. Has to walk across the rugs because there’s a sliding glass door now. On the back wall of the bedroom. He must not have pulled the blinds all the way before falling asleep, because sunlight streams through the cracks. His bedroom in Neil’s house had one south facing window. Here, this sliding door opens east, the full force of a breaking sunrise illuminating the room. 

There’s a cold metal handle, and he has to throw his shoulder in it to get it to unstick, but it clicks. Unlocks. Fucking unlocks. And slides open. 

Billy steps out onto the back deck. The one that stretches the length of the trailer. The one that looks out over the lake. 

It’s October. The crispness in the air stands as a warning. Billy stands against it. It’s cold. Way too cold to be standing out here in his boxers, but. 

That sunrise? Reflected across the still surface of the lake. Water like glass. Pale pinks and deep greens and visible breaths. 

The worn wood of the deck is almost soft under his feet. 

He. It’s. 

Billy looks back towards the sliding door. The one that opens into a bedroom. A bedroom that has an open windows. So many opens windows. And a box of his jackets in the closet. 

There’s a burn. 

A pinprick in the corner of his eye. 

_Fuck._

He needs a run. 

*

He pushes himself further and faster than he normally does, trying to stave off whatever the fuck was about to happen to him if he stayed at the trailer another second. 

It mostly worked. Or exhausted him enough to wipe his mind of anything else beyond the pounding of sneakers through the woods, the raggedness of his breath, the sweat cooling almost immediately across his skin. Billy’s circling back, taking the low path that parallels the county road, which will eventually dump him out at the trailer’s makeshift driveway. The trail he’s following is well marked and it’s mostly in the open, shallow parts of the woods. And yet he still manages to nearly crash into Steve Harrington. 

The idiot came out of _nowhere_. Definitely not following the path and popping out from behind a tree like a fucking deranged jack-in-the-box with wild hair. Wilder eyes. 

Billy thanks every single hour he’s spent crafting every muscle in his body because he’s able to stop his momentum fluidly, and cut hard to his right just in time to narrowly avoid taking out the wandering dumbass. 

He digs a foot into the rough earth below him, pulling himself to a stop. 

“What the fuck, Harrington!” He yells, his breathing coming out in short gasps. 

Billy stops himself from doubling over to catch his breath, settles for his hands on his hips, taking in gulps of air. 

And Steve just stares at him. 

Like the open, wide-eyed, sort of shocked stare that’s uniquely and annoyingly Harrington. He blinks. Billy watches him suddenly twist around, glancing up at the sky before cutting his gaze down, staring back out over the trees. 

"Hey." Billy snaps his fingers, impatient. "Earth to Harrington." He mocks, waving a hand. 

With recognition, Steve's face twists up in anger. _Finally_, Billy thinks. 

"Fuck off, Hargrove." Steve huffs, batting Billy's hand away from his face. 

And with that, Steve seemed content to stuff his hands back into his pockets and stomp off past Billy. But he drops his shoulder, knocking into Billy as he goes, grumbling. "Stay out of my way." 

Billy half turns, feels a smile break across his face, and grabs Steve at the elbow. Spins him. 

"What was that, princess?" Billy laughs, voice dropped to a rumble. 

Steve jerks out of the hold, glares back at Billy, "Stay out of my-"

"Yeah." Billy cuts him off, sighs, "Funny thing, though. Pretty sure you need to stay out of my way.” Billy jerks his head in the direction of the very clear and evident trail he had been running, “I was the one on the path, pal. Not the idiot wandering through the woods.” 

There’s a flash of fight that shines bright across Harrington’s face at Billy’s words. And Billy thinks he’s about to get real lucky, about to get Steve all pissed off and ready to thrown down again, but the flash is gone as soon as it appeared. And this time Harrington looks more frazzled and weary than furious. 

“Whatever.” Harrington bites out bitterly, moving to push past him again. Billy lets him go. 

“You really fucking lost it, huh?” He calls after him, just to see Harrington whirl back around. Face him. 

“Don’t.” Steve takes a measured step closer to him, his voice quiet in the still woods, “Don’t pretend like you know what’s going on.” 

When Billy snickers, because of course he knows what’s going on - Steve’s lost his mind, Steve makes a frustrated noise. Stalks over to him. 

“You don’t know shit.” Harrington warns. Stares him down. And turns to stomp back in the direction he came from. 

He doesn’t know why he says it. He has no solid reason for why he says what he says next. 

Maybe he’s bored. 

Maybe Harrington’s just crazy enough. 

Or maybe he’s just tired of watching people walk away. 

Whatever it is has him stepping forward, angrily shoving a hand through his wild curls, his voice just a touch too breathless. 

“I have a deck.” Billy calls out. And wants to cram the word back into his mouth immediately. 

He waits. 

Feels like the biggest dumbass in the entire world. 

Steve slowly turns back, looking like he didn’t quite hear him. 

“You have a what?” Harrington laughs the question, stunned. 

“I have a deck.” Billy forces the words out, _it’s already out there_. “Hopper’s trailer, you know it?”

“Do I,” Harrington laughs again, a touch of that sharp manic energy from before creeping into it, “No, Hargrove. I don’t know Hopper’s trailer.”

“It has this deck. On the back. Stretches the whole length of it. Overlooks the lake or whatever.” Billy shrugs. He looks up at Harrington, but he’s still wearing that godawful combination that hits somewhere between perpetually confused and amused as fuck and Billy wishes, just wishes, Hawkins would give him a fucking break. He sighs harshly, “It’s mine now. The trailer. Hop’s full time at the cabin. He let me move in, you know, so I,” Billy trails off, feeling like a fucking idiot for starting this. 

“You have a deck.” Harrington finishes, a corner of his mouth quirking up. 

Billy has to look away. Makes a show out of tying up his hair to take a moment to fucking breathe. 

“It’s about a half a mile that way.” Billy points in the direction of the path leading up over the hill. He clears his throat, aims for something more casual and detached. “It’s sort of shitty but, you know. It has a decent amount of space to pace around like a lunatic. And it’s in the middle of fucking nowhere, so, you can stop making a fool out of yourself in front of the whole town.” 

Billy almost regrets it because Steve looks taken aback. He knows it’s a low blow but it’s the only card he has to play. He might only see Harrington in the woods acting like an idiot, but he’s heard the stories. The ones about Harrington losing it in the supermarket, scaring the kids at the park, stalking the main streets in the early morning hours. 

That’s the first rule of trying to hold it together. If you’re going to fall apart, limit the amount of collateral damage. Someone should have told Steve that already. 

Steve finally looks over at him, eyebrows knit together.

“So what are you saying?” Steve asks cautiously. 

Billy scoffs, turns to start walking back up the path, “Look, use it or don’t use it. I don’t fucking care, Harrington.”

And Billy turns. Resumes his run. At top speed.


	12. coffee.

Two days later, Billy’s staring at the ceiling in the bedroom he inhabits at the trailer. Can’t stop the smile. 

There’s not so quiet footsteps stumbling and clambering outside. It’s half past three in the morning and Billy’s laughing to himself. The windows are thrown open, the sliding door kicked out a few inches, and Billy can perfectly hear all the muttered ramblings of an idiot trying to climb onto the deck. 

Satisfied with knowing he’s won this round, Billy pushes himself out of bed. He makes his way to the small kitchen. He goes to the kettle out of habit but casts a quick look over at the leftover coffee maker and pauses. He sighs. 

“Coffee or tea, princess?” Billy calls out. 

There’s a sound like someone’s tripped over a chair, knocked over the small plastic table, and probably fell into the railing of the deck. And then silence. 

Billy waits. 

“Coffee.” Steve finally calls back, his voice carrying through the small kitchen window. 

Billy rolls his eyes, yanking the cabinet open to dig for some ground coffee. Does he even have a filter? God, Harrington is _so_ high-maintenance.


	13. new.

Billy’s making a quick pit stop at the trailer. He’s been El and Max’s fucking chauffeur all afternoon per Hop’s request. Picking them up, taking them to the arcade, now driving them back to the cabin until Hopper gets back. 

It’s becoming more or less of a thing. Billy struggles with calling it _babysitting_ \- because Billy Hargrove isn’t a fucking babysitter. Although Hopper definitely thinks he is. Which is hilarious because re: Billy Hargrove isn’t a fucking babysitter and you know, he hates kids and kids hate him. The Chief doesn’t seem to grasp that, though. Because most days he’s fielding calls to take El here, drop her off there, pick up the girls here, etc. And you know what’s the fucking cherry on top? It’s not like he has anything else going on anyway. 

So, he’s not a babysitter. But apparently he is someone that’s just there, mostly grumping around in the background, or reading or snoozing on the couch or in his car, while Max and El get up to god only knows what while he’s ‘in charge’ in the absolute thinnest sense of the term. Mostly he just drives the car. 

Like today.

It’s early evening and Billy’s definitely going to need a new book and something he’s actually willing to eat to make it through another night of 'babysitting'. 

He makes the girls wait in the car, which is a genuine risk because they would absolutely drive off without him in a heartbeat. Billy thinks he has the upper hand though, because only one of them has the pizza money. 

Anyway, he’s running up the stairs and stomping around the bedroom in no time. Liberating a beaten up paperback from the depths of the bed and crossing quickly into the kitchen, stuffing some grapes he’s frozen and a few apples with a whole jar of peanut butter into his backpack. He’s pretty sure the girls won’t actually steal his car, but you know, he’s not testing the limits of their patience. 

Billy stops when he throws open the door of the small refrigerator. He’s looking for the celery stalks he’s already cut up but pauses when he spots the pint of half and half sitting on the middle of the top shelf. 

Billy’s lactose intolerant. 

Standing up slowly, Billy reaches towards the cabinet above the microwave. 

And sure as shit, there, next to his boxes of tea that have been pushed aside, sat a bright red Folgers jar. 

_Are you fucking kidding me_. 

On impulse, he cuts back into the living room and throws open the other sliding door, cautiously stepping out onto the deck. 

Two brand fucking new patio chairs. With obnoxious floral print cushions. 

He is going to _kill_ Harrington.


	14. tattoo.

A few days later, Billy finds out to what extent he's fucked by the rules he's already agreed to. 

Turns out mandatory family dinners were not a fucking joke. 

At 6pm sharp, Billy hears the crunch of gravel as the Chief ’s truck makes it way up the path towards the trailer. At 6:02 Hopper has apparently waited long enough and starts blaring the horn. Doesn’t stop with the fucking horn until Billy topples out of the trailer door, still yanking on his jacket. 

At 6:04, after a cutoff exchange, Hopper sends him back into the trailer to put on a ‘clean shirt that actually buttons to the top’ with a deep frown and an already exhausted glare. 

At 6:08, Billy’s planted in the passenger seat. All uncomfortable and scratchy as Hopper tears down back county road to get to the Byers’ house. He’s mostly feeling like the buttons pressed in close to his neck are choking him slowly. Which, _mood_. He shifts but it’s pointless. The shirt is just a little too tight on him, anyway. Which is why he prefers to wear them open and loose. At least this one is in fact clean, and light and cottony so hopefully he won’t sweat through it. And plus, he likes the way the bright white of the fabric stands out against his skin, how the collar of it smoothes over the top of his denim jacket. It’s not his preferred look but he’s still killing it. 

At 6:22 they’re stepping into the Byers’ home, Joyce pulling both of them into hugs in such a casual way that Billy has to tell himself not to panic. He’s beyond glad when Joyce politely asks for his jacket and then just pushes him in the direction of the kitchen and tells him to help set the table. 

There’s so much commotion and chaos and Billy sort of just gets swept up into it. Jonathan and Nancy are there, of course, scurrying around the big table they must have set up just for this and arguing loudly over what serving utensils go with which dish. Max is there too, and Billy laughs a little as he watches her con Steve into essentially carrying all the plates over to the table, while she just stands to the side and tells him where to put them. Hopper’s hauling in a cooler he must have kept in the truck, barking out the options and grimacing as everyone shouts back their order. He feels a little lost but Joyce is there, at his shoulder, asking him to reach the platter they keep on top of the fridge. It’s an awkward stretch, that kid Will cuts right under him, dropping silverware everywhere and mumbling out a million apologies before Joyce just shrugs and procures boxes of plastic utensils. Billy’s still trying to reach up and over him, pressed up on his toes, leveraging some of his core strength to twist and he finally liberates the platter, passing it off to a grateful Joyce. 

He’s righting himself and smoothing out his shirt when he hears a small but authoritative; 

“Hey.” 

El is suddenly right there. Right at his left side, standing just a few inches away. And Billy’s about to say something, but stops when he notices El staring at his shirt. She looks entranced, and also - angry? 

He’s honestly not going to last if someone’s already managed to spill something on him. 

Billy doesn’t have time to come up with a response before El just steps even closer and straight up reaches out to push up his shirt, exposing the majority of his left side. 

The whole room goes silent, staring at them.

Joyce gets out a desperate, “Oh El, honey, don’t,” but El is already reaching up with her other hand. 

She doesn’t touch him but Billy can sense the ghost of fingertips right over ribcage. And it takes him an embarrassing amount of frozen time to realize she must be passing over his tattoo. 

She must have seen the outline of it when Billy was twisting around reaching for the platter, white shirt pulled tight over skin. 

“Bad.” She says vehemently, looking up at him, fitting so much hate and anger into one word. 

Her eyes are piercing, dark and dangerous, and pinning Billy where he stands. His confusion must openly play across his face because El lets his shirt fall and takes a step back, pushes up her own sleeve. 

“Bad.” She says again, just as seriously. Pointing at her 011 tattoo.

And it clicks. 

Billy breathes out. Slowly crouches in front of her.

“Oh, no. This one is a good one. Don't worry, kid.” He’s hyper aware everyone is staring at him but he tries to smile at her anyway. It doesn't work. 

“Good?” El asks, accusatorially. Like that's even possible. And Billy sighs because yeah, she’s probably never met someone who has a non child-torturing kind of tattoo. 

“Yeah.” Billy nods but El still looks concerned and anxious and he definitely doesn’t want to fucking admit this in front of a room full of people, but you know, here he is. “Yeah, it’s good. I, uh, I got it for my mom.”

“For her?” El asks, inclining her head. Billy rolls his eyes because honestly what is this, twenty questions? But he continues, he’s already made it this far, and it’s not like he’s ashamed. 

“Yeah, um,” he tries to drop his voice low, still knowing most of the fucking gawkers can probably still hear him, he shakes his head, tries to focus just on El, “sometimes people get tattoos.” He looks up at her, recalls beaches and sunburns and freckles and smiles softly, “To remember someone they lost.”

There’s a moment. It stretches longer than the milliseconds it takes El to blink up at him. Her face steady and somber and Billy really needs a cigarette like right fucking now, thanks. But El is surging up, placing her hand right over his chest. 

“You didn’t lose her.” It’s a whisper as she leans in, looking him square in the eyes and not fucking wavering. 

And. 

Anyone else. Anyone else and he would have punched them in the face just for speaking about her. Anyone else and he would have lost it. Anyone else and it would have sounded tacky and shallow and stupid but it doesn't. It should. Billy tells himself that it should. But it doesn’t, not with her eyes, not knowing what she knows, not because she actually means it. 

It’s a trip. 

Like Billy’s both back on that beach and firmly glued to his spot in Byers’ shitty kitchen all at once. It’s terrible. And he needs, he needs a diversion. 

For lack of literally anything else, Billy gestures at his head. 

“You wanna see it?”

El’s eyes blow wide. 

“The memory?” She breathes out quietly. 

“Yeah.” Billy nods, what the hell, you know? 

And El is a flurry of excited movement, she’s spinning towards the table and grabbing for a linen napkin, rushing to fold it into a proper blindfold. Billy’s hiding a smile but stops when El stops. He watches her slowly lower the napkin, and sullenly cast a look towards Hopper. 

“No.” She mumbles out, shakes her head a little sending curls bouncing. She looks back at Hop as if confirming and sighs, forcing out a lowly, “Respect people’s boundaries.”

It’s the part that she sounds mad about it that get Billy laughing. He huffs out a snort and shrugs, “It’s fine. Don’t mind.” 

He carefully kneels down in front of her, only because the kid looks so genuinely delighted and Billy knows she can fuck him up easy if he messes this up. It’s awkward, really fucking awkward and Billy mostly regrets it immediately because he’s not sure what he’s doing. How this works. But here he is, still in Byers’ shitty kitchen, in front of a room full of people, kneeling low like this is something he normally does. Thank fuck supergirl seems to know what she’s doing. 

Her hands comes back out, gentle fingertips press into his temple. He drops his head. 

The cool and dark and boundless space of _nothingness_ is easy to find, the pull of it makes his head and body go fuzzy and distant. He doesn’t need to understand how, it’s just a new paradigm shift in his reality that this actually works. Of course it does, you know? Just another little surprise in the new super weird Hawkins. 

Lifting through the drop in subconsciousness, and somehow just knowing El is there, Billy lets himself recall the memory of getting the tattoo. 

It was right when he got to Hawkins. One of the early days. He was angry and hurt and more than a little broken and driving way too fast. Spotting wildflowers growing on some back country road nearly did him in. But El didn’t need to know that part. He fast-forward to straight up lying and faking IDs and waiting around for a tattoo artist that didn’t care that he wasn’t 18. He remembers fumbling the request, the breathlessness of watching the artist sketch out his design. The markup of it, cold and cautionary right over his ribs. The feeling of rightness. The tattoo artist starting the work, the bright buzzing of the needle against his skin. 

“Ow.” El squawks, more in surprise. She’s grabbing at her own side, mirroring where Billy’s tattoo is. “Hurts.”

“Yeah, but only for a little bit.” Billy hears himself saying, is he saying it aloud or in his head? Couldn’t tell ya. Regardless, he doesn’t linger over the worst of the pain. Because that thing hurt like a bitch. 

He shifts the memory to when the tattoo is healed. When he couldn’t stop looking at it every time he passed a mirror. How it made him think of his mom, she always loved daisies, in her hair, in his hair, in her car, always in a vase, or pressed into pages of journals, drawn on the backs of envelopes, the walls, painted on her nails, on the brim of her beach hat, on her back bumper as she drove away. 

Looking at the tattoo now, he skims his own hand across it. Some days it makes him really mad. Some days it makes him smile bitterly. Most days he’s glad he can hide it under a shirt. You know, until today. 

He feels El’s fingertip leave his forehead, and just like that, it’s over. Steps out of the memory. He’s back on the floor of Byers’ shitty kitchen. He blinks. 

She’s smiling at him. 

“It’s pretty.”

Billy barely manages a slight nod. 

And with that she just turns, picks up whatever she must have been carrying, and runs back over to the table. Hopper snaps at her to wash her hands before they eat. And Billy's back to being absorbed into the chaos, the dinner party continuing around him as if nothing happened.


	15. nice.

At the conclusion of the dinner, Hopper decided he didn’t want to drive Billy ‘all the way back to the trailer’ and loudly asked who was available to drive him home. Billy had a line all queued up, one about how Hop should just come out and say he wants to stay with Joyce for the night instead of making Billy the excuse, but before Billy can snap out the remark, Harrington has apparently already volunteered. 

Which. The fuck? 

The Chief throws him the most insufferable grin from the Byers’ porch, his arm around Joyce’s shoulders, as Billy unwillingly and with many f-bombs and threats of death, climbs in Harrington’s fucking BMW. 

Billy shuts the radio off so violently when Steve incomprehensibly turned up the volume to a Hall & Oates song. 

Harrington giggled, _giggled_, from the driver's seat. 

Billy wonders how badly he would damage his hand if he punches out the window and sets about counting in his head the final seventeen minutes of this suffering he’ll have to endure until they make it to the trailer. 

A blessed, uninterrupted minute passes. 

And that’s all the reprieve Billy will get. 

“That was nice.” Steve starts, obnoxiously smiling over at him. 

And it’s weird, you know? This Steve. The charming, parent friendly, kid loving, upstanding citizen, totally normal and not trekking through the woods half out of his mind Steve. Not staring middle distant out onto the lake, not making a fucking sounds for hours, all while curled up on a deck chair Steve. Not the Steve that's already broken two of Billy's ceramic mugs because his hands just shake like that apparently. No. This is a Steve that now apparently smiles at him. Offers to drive him home. Wants to talk. Billy immediately decides he hates it. 

Billy sends him the driest look, “Half of that stuff wasn’t even edible, Harrington.” 

That chicken, _god_. Or was it supposed to be turkey? He shivers. Glad he didn't even pretend like he was going to consume it. 

“No, I mean what you did. For El.” Steve hits him with those goofy fucking doe eyes, “That was nice.” 

“S’nothing.” He shifts, crossing his arms, annoyed. 

“It’s not nothing.”

Billy rolls his eyes. Does he ever shut the hell up? At least unhinged Steve is normally quiet. 

“Let it go.” He attempts a warning tone, but Steve, the eternal idiot, completely ignores him.

“I know she has some … issues, understanding things. And I’ve never seen anyone else do that.” He pauses to gesture at his own head like a dumbass. “That memory thing? Pretty cool.”

Billy shrugs, checks the stereo clock, fourteen minutes left. 

“Easier than telling her the whole dumb story.” 

“Maybe.” Steve concedes, but he follows it up with a taunting, “But it’s also _nice_.”

Billy pushes back into his seat, irritation easily turning into frustration, fast on its way to anger. 

“Which means that you’re nice.” Steve practically sings, face all stupid and smug and that’s just does it. This Steve doesn't get to just say shit like that. 

“Harrington.” Billy rumbles out, at his limit for the evening, and finally turns to face him. Apparently Steve wants to die tonight. But Steve doesn’t look one fucking bit remorseful, in fact he looks fucking _gleeful_ and Billy is going to snap. 

Steve opens his big, stupid mouth, and rushes out, “You’re nice, even if it’s just to El, you’re,”

Billy doesn’t care that he’s driving the goddamn car, he shoves him, hard. Let them crash. Steve’s shoulder collides with his window and he’s slamming on the breaks, pulling onto the shoulder of the road. 

And he’s _laughing_. The bastard is laughing, openly. 

Billy feels the anger crackle under his skin. Steve throws the BMW into park like it was his plan all along. 

“Billy Hargrove,” Steve says all mock innocence looking over at him, rubbing his shoulder and batting his eyelashes through sighs of dying laughter, “what a softie.” 

And well, that’s just. He can’t stand for that. Doesn't care which version of Steve he's getting. Doesn't care this one smiles openly, laughs right in Billy's face, acting like this is something they actually do. He's gotta shut that down. Quick. 

Billy leans over the console, glaring him down,“You wanna fucking fight, Harrington?” He shoves him again, “Knock it off.”

“Fight?” Steve asks, still fucking smiling, “Yeah. Let’s fight.” He gestures broadly, “I’ll take you out.” 

“Anytime, pretty boy.” The response is immediate. Billy scoffs, he would tear him to _pieces_, “You don’t stand a chance.” 

Steve swings forward, all jutted out chin and crazy eyes. A glimmer of his past self. “Then fight me, Hargrove. You won’t.” He sticks a finger right into Billy’s chest, “You’re too _soft_.” 

And Billy doesn’t really have a choice, does he? Just for that, he has to snatch up the arm that’s connected to the finger digging into his chest. He has to pin it back behind Harrington’s back, has to twist it and apply just enough pressure until Steve is shrieking in pain. 

“Yeah?” He madly grins down at Steve, now toppled over onto the steering wheel, “That soft enough for you? Still wanna fight me, huh?”

He maybe applies a little more pressure, easily moving Steve’s wrist in his hand.

“Fuck.” Steve laughs, breathless. He tries squirming around but Billy doesn’t miss the twinge of pain that crosses Steve’s face. “Let go, Hargrove.” 

It’d be relatively easy. Snapping Steve’s arm. All he has to do is crank Steve’s wrist back towards him and _pop_. Like a twig. That’s what Harrington should get for having these fucking noodle arms. 

Billy shifts, releasing Steve’s wrist but keeping the arm locked in place. 

He holds him there, “Just admit you’d know I’d win.” 

“Never.” Steve snaps, frenzied. With the vindication of someone who’s not severely outmatched. The idiot. 

Billy laughs. A bright sound in the small space around them. He leans forward, effectively pinning Steve into the steering wheel. 

“I can do this all night, pal.” 

“I’m sure you can, big guy. But seriously, enough, I’m gonna lose feeling soon.” 

“All you gotta do is tell me I’d win and-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got it.” Steve throws back casually, rolling his eyes. “Fight me later. I know. But let’s get food first? I hardly ate anything at that dinner.” 

It’s a rich line, Steve's in no place to be making demands. But then again, Steve’s never been known for knowing what’s good for him. 

It’s with a final shove that Billy lets go of his arm. He huffs around and falls back into his seat. Because yeah, Billy didn’t eat anything either. 

Harrington shakes out his arm a few times, shakes his head at Billy, and starts the car.

“Burger King?” Steve suggests. 

Billy wrinkles his nose. _Gross_. 

“You can eat my fries.” Steve leans over, pats him on the arm.


	16. share.

There's a phone call. 

Billy wouldn't call it a conversation because that implies two people talking and this was definitely just Hopper barking out orders to him. 

He'll be out late on some call, someone's dropping off El, and Billy needs to be at the cabin to watch her until Hop gets back. Might be late. Don't let her eat just waffles. No TV after nine. Good luck. 

There's a click and the line goes dead and Billy rolls his eyes sky high. 

The kid literally has superpowers. She can fuck up anyone that tries to mess with her. By just like, twitching her neck a little. There is literally no reason why El needs a babysitter. It's stupid and it makes no fucking sense and he really hates being at Hopper's beck and call and he tells himself all of this as he drives to the cabin. 

He agreed to these terms. He knows. It’s apart of staying at the trailer. But. 

It's just. The whole thing. The fake babysitting, the trailer, the fucking family dinners that everyone is just cool with? It's all a little too on the nose? Because come on, seriously. Billy's not the type of person who responds well to being played. Because that's what this is. He knows it. And he hates Hopper for it every time he confronts it. Because of course Hopper knows, too. 

Billy knows there's no looking at El and not seeing a part of himself. He knew that since he was half monster. He knows that now. Whatever Upside Down connection they share almost doesn't matter. It's more basic than that. Fighters recognize fighters. Survivors recognize survivors. Lost boys, lost girls, trying to process the fact that they might not have to run anymore. It's painful. It's exhausting. And it feels like having your soul stripped bare, exposed and burning. 

So he walks the tightrope between two cliffs. Half of him wanting to cut the bullshit and confront Hopper so he knows he's onto him. The other half, would never admit that he's eternally grateful to be given a cover. 

It’s a lot to take in. 

Billy speeds down the back road to get to the cabin. Lets himself push this all away in favor of not thinking about it. At least tonight he can do this. 

Because it's easy. 

He gets there before El. Kicks his feet up onto the couch. She gets there a little later, dropped off by some deputy. She doesn't even say anything, doesn't even really acknowledge him. Walks right past him and into her room. Billy shrugs, cold, but that's fine with him, and takes up his usual reading position. 

Not fifteen minutes later El shuffles out. A stack of Wonder Woman comics in her arms. And plops into the armchair by the TV. 

She silently starts to read, only pausing to lift an eyebrow in Billy’s direction when he does nothing but stare at her. 

And yeah, he almost laughs, this is cool too. 

Billy's not sure how long they stay like that, isolated islands in peace. But he does know that the silence is broken, for the first time that evening, when El announces she's already made dinner. Billy cuts her a skeptical look. Immediately on alert for something frozen waffle related and covered in ungodly amounts of whipped cream. 

El offers nothing. Turns to walk towards the small refrigerator in the kitchen. 

Curious, he pushes himself off the couch. 

"Wash your hands before we eat." El calls over her shoulder, over enunciating it like she does when it's one of her common, repeated lines. 

He does. Not because she told him to. But because he’s not an animal. 

While washing up, El’s next to him. Pulling out bowls and small containers from the refrigerator, placing them on the table. 

He turns. And. Pulls up short. 

There, arranged on the table, next to the overflowing bowls of spinach and lettuce, are small containers full of pre-cut vegetables. It’s tomatoes and cucumbers and carrots and peppers and onions and broccoli and he’s pretty sure one is just filled with hard-boiled eggs. 

He goes to cut El a look, but the kid just levitates a fork towards him, motioning to where they keep the dressing on the fridge’s door. 

He sighs, “So you planned this?” 

And if there was a tiny smile in his tone, well, no one has to know. 

El just shrugs. But she turns to him. Looking like she’s about to pass him a bowl but stops. Stares directly at him. 

“I can show you.” She says, motioning back at the table. 

He clocks the spread of fresh vegetables again, and can’t help but think he’s been in this cabin a few times now and has never so much as seen an apple. Billy looks back at her and it clicks. 

“You can show me a memory?” He asks, stunned. ‘Cause that’s. Insane. 

El nods. 

_Holy fuck_. 

He knows he’s staring like an idiot but that’s a lot to take in. 

For some reason, it was easier to accept and understand that El could see into his memories. She’s done it before and well, you know, she’s the one with the superpowers. Billy never even once thought, imagined, that it could work both ways. 

“But how’s that, I mean, I’m not,” he stumbles, clears his throat. He gestures between them, feeling incredibly stupid. “I don’t know how to do that.” 

It doesn’t help when El looks up at him like he’s being an idiot on purpose. 

And that’s how he finds himself crouching down in front of her, under a power that isn’t his own, until he’s low enough for El to reach out to touch his forehead. Billy's last conscious thought is that this is the second time he's done this crouched on some shitty kitchen floor. 

His eyes snap shut the second her fingertips pass over his temple. 

It takes a second. Or maybe longer than that, he doesn’t know. Time doesn’t really make sense when the space in front of you is glimmering and melting and you’re spinning while feeling like you’re being pushed back and there’s just silence and blackness. 

*

With a crackle like static pop, he’s at the only supermarket in Hawkins. 

The first thing he notices, beyond the familiar layout of the store, is that he’s decidedly shorter. He huffs a laugh, knowing he must be seeing it through El’s vantage point. 

And it’s. Well. He looks around, taking in the sparse aisles. The manufactured garbage that fills its shelves. The people of Hawkins, slowly walking about it and making inane chit chat. The obnoxious buzz of elevator jazz over the speakers. 

It’s boring. It’s super fucking boring. He almost rolls his eyes but realizes he can’t. 

Come on, he showed her an awesome memory. And this is what he gets? Fucking grocery shopping? He was expecting something a little more badass. 

Something moves in the corner of his vision, and his attention is pulled towards the back of the store. He recognizes Hopper, standing at the deli counter. He is surprised, a little, to watch Hopper wave someone over to him. There's a flash of red and then Max is there, standing next to Hopper. 

There's a strange whooshing sound, and the rest of the store kind of dulls around him, but something amplifies. And he can now hear Max and Hopper talking. 

He grins, that little shit. He knows El didn't move closer to them, she must have tapped into some super sonic hearing or some shit to be able to make out the conversation happening.

Billy watches it play out. 

Hop turns to Max, awkwardly. 

He gestured towards the deli counter, "Should we pick something up for Billy for later?"

Max side-eyes the Chief, shrugs. "Uh, sure?"

"What do you think we should grab? I noticed your brother doesn’t eat a lot." 

Max straight up loses it. Her annoying laughter bubbling out of her. Loud and brash. 

Hop looks at her questioningly and Billy can't help but groan a little. 

"Oh, um, he does eat a lot." Max starts, quieting her giggles, "Actually he eats like a pig. It’s gross." 

"But all the times you guys go out for fast food, he hardly touches it." Hopper spells out slowly and Billy finds himself taken aback by the observation. 

"Oh!" Max brightens. Nods. "Yeah, I guess you’re right. But that’s just because he’s weird about food." 

Hopper's face actually drops, "Max, if there’s something-"

Thankfully, Max shuts that down. Her hands are raised, shaking her head, "No, no. Not like that. He," Max pauses to laugh, "he only eats boring food, you know?" 

"Boring food?" Hopper intones, eyebrows raised. 

"Yeah like spinach and vegetables and beans and shit." Max lists like they're the absolute worst things she could think of. Hopper actually laughs. 

"You mean healthy food." 

"I guess?" Max shrugs again and Hopper shakes his head. 

"Okay, got it." He sighs, nodding. And Max breaks away, probably to trot back in El's direction. 

Billy watches, from El's vantage point, as Hop turns from the deli counter and cuts back down the fruits and veggies section. Watches Hopper stop to talk to Joyce, who's picking out bananas. Apparently El didn't bother to overhear this conversation because Billy can't hear what they're saying. Only that Hopper finishes and Joyce looks genuinely stunned. Before laughing and turning to go throw a whole assortment of produce and god knows what else into her cart. 

*

He blinks out of it. 

“Fuck.” Billy breathes out. 

He coughs. And loses his balance, topples right on to his ass, ends up sitting on the kitchen floor. In front of the fridge. 

El just looks down at him. And she smiles. Before turning to start constructing her salad.


	17. scream.

They ate on the couch. Apparently El’s superpowers extend to cable wiring because with one jerk of her head they’re watching some black and white show about the crew of a spaceship. It’s in French. Billy has no fucking clue what’s going on, can only slightly follow the outline of a plot. But it’s obvious El loves this shit as she keeps shushing him every time he tries to ask a question. _Whatever_. 

A few episodes later, right when Billy started understanding that Doctor Marie had secretly been an alien this whole time, he looks over to find one passed out kiddo curled up in the corner of the couch. Her curls mashed up into her pillow, approximately four blankets wrapped around her. 

Billy sighs. Rolls his eyes. And stands to turn off the TV. 

He stretches, wanders around until he finds his book. And plops down into the armchair. 

He considers that El should probably be sleeping in her own bed. But, you know, she’s sleeping, so why bother her? She’ll probably get up eventually and move anyway. And then Billy can sleep on the couch. 

But, for now, he’s content with the recliner. 

It’s quiet. 

It’s. 

It’s fucking nice is what it is. 

And it’s sort of funny. El must even have powers in her dreams, every so often the lights will flicker or something will move and Billy shakes his head. _Show off_. 

And, of course, because it’s new Hawkins law, that’s when Steve comes ripping through the door. 

Billy startles as the door bangs against the wall, the screen door snapping shut behind Harrington. 

Billy’s on his feet in an instant. 

Moving towards the door Billy checks back on the bundle of blankets on the couch. El’s still sleeping. 

He can hear Steve’s ragged breathing in the small room. Can smell the sweat and the wet earth stench rolling off the idiot. Doesn’t need to double check to know he’s got the ghost version of Steve tonight. 

Billy positions himself between the door and the rest of the cabin, and locks eyes with Steve. 

“Where’s Hopper?” Steve practically barks out. 

“Lower your goddamn voice, Harrington.” Billy cuts back, hoarse whisper, checking over his shoulder to make sure El’s still out cold. 

“Sorry.” Steve looks actually pained and sort of apologetic, looking past Billy, “But I need to. I need to talk to Hopper.” He shifts, twist his arms up, “So is he here?” Steve takes a sharp step forward, “Where is he? I need to,”

“Calm the fuck down, princess.” Billy puts his arm out, Steve looks genuinely distressed, “He ain’t here.”

“Well, where is he?” Steve pushes forward again, knocking into Billy’s arm, “I have to,” and finally, when Billy pushes him back, Steve finally seems to look towards him. And register. “Wait, hang on, why are you here?”

“Why do you think, dumbass?” Billy gestures over to El. 

“He asked you to babysit?!” Steve shouts, voice high and reedy. “But I was free tonight.” He adds, softer, his face falling. 

Billy snorts at the kicked puppy look, “Are you seriously upset he didn’t ask you first?”

“Oh my god,” Steve rakes his fingers through his floppy hair, pulls at it, “he doesn’t trust me.”

Billy just stands there as Steve literally sways into the wall and collapses against it. Sliding down until he’s sitting on the scratchy entryway rug. 

“He thinks I’m crazy, too.” Steve sighs, knocking his head back into the wall. “He’s thinks I’m the fucked up paranoid mess everyone thinks I am and he doesn’t trust me with his kid.”

“Well,” Billy steps forward, “when you came crashing into his house, raving like a lunatic, I can see where his opinion might be swayed.” 

“Fuck you, Hargrove.” Steve huffs, without any heat.

“Hey, man. Just saying.” Billy sighs, crossing his arms. This isn’t any fun when Steve goes all sad and mopey. 

“I have to go find him.” Steve mumbles out. 

“You aren’t going anywhere.” Billy laughs. 

“What?” Steve blinks up at him, like he’s deciding if he should be confused or offended. And Billy gets that. Sure. Still sort of sucks. He's not someone who would ever be accused of being called helpful, but even Billy knows he shouldn't let Steve just leave. Lord only knows if the idiot drove here. Or fucking walked. And Billy doesn't care but he knows, intimately, what fucked up shit can just pop out of the earth at this hour of night. He's starting to get the feeling Steve might understand too. 

“Harrington,” Billy starts, “you can't even fucking stand.” He nods towards the back bedroom, “Why don’t you go sleep it off.”

“But.” Steve looks up at him, his face pulled into distress. “Hopper’s not here.”

And. 

Okay. 

Billy finds that a little weird. 

Sure, he gets the trepidation of being in someone's house without their permission. But doesn't Steve do this all the time? Billy doesn't know much about the arrangement Steve has with Hop, but he's assuming it includes something like this. 

“Why would that matter?” Billy questions, dropping his voice.

“Because I, look, it’s just,” Steve fumbles out, then moves to stand. “I have to talk to him, alright? So I’ll just go. And wait. Or whatever.”

“Don’t.” Billy stops him by the elbow. Then pulls back. “I’m not chasing after your dumbass if you start haunting the forest _or whatever_.”

Steve steps into his space, but he’s still shaking. “Don't act like you know shit, Hargrove.”

“I'm not.” Billy shrugs, honest. He doesn't understand whatever's going on with Steve, doesn't really need to know the smart play here. “Pretty sure you should just sleep while you can though.”

“_I can’t_. Are you stupid or something?” Steve snaps, voice climbing, “Hopper isn’t here so I -”

“You what?” Billy challenges, leaning in towards him, “What is it, Harrington? Why would it make a difference if the Chief is here or not? You know how that sounds, right? Makes me think they’re might be something else going on with you, so,”

Screams. He's cut off by the screaming. Loud, just for a second, thrumming against the inside of his skull, before it's abruptly shut off. 

A floorboard creaks. 

And El is suddenly there, right behind Billy, staring up at both of them, rumpled mess of hair and all. 

They both turn to her, slightly taken aback. 

Billy hears an echo of the screaming in his head, again, like that first night El showed him. 

Oh. 

He had forgotten about the warning she gave him that first night. That Steve is capable of that.

_But what happens when Steve actually_, he thinks, stops. 

Because El is sending him a memory, he blinks back into it easily. It's from her perspective again. And she’s behind the door. The door of the bedroom Steve occupied last time he was here. 

*

It’s clear El is listening to Steve caught up in some horrible nightmare. The screams. Rips of pain. Low groans that sounds like Harrington is _begging_. Billy covers his own ears, wincing, feeling El’s concern radiate through his whole body. The door is open just a few inches and El is shifting silently to see into the room. 

*

“No! Stop!” Steve sputters, “That, that silent talking thing you guys do isn’t fair!” 

*

It’s like Billy can hear him, distantly, but he’s too focused on what El is showing him to respond. Because she’s leaning into the space of the open bedroom door, looking in, and there’s Steve. And Hopper. And Billy watches the Chief none too gently pull a thrashing Steve out of the nightmare. And it’s … vicious.

*

“El, _stop_.” Steve pleads and just like that, it’s over. 

Billy blinks back out of it. Turns back to El. The kid doesn’t even look fazed. 

“You okay?” He still asks her. Mostly because _he_ needs a second. 

She nods once. Her gaze shifting over to Steve. 

Billy gestures in Harrington’s direction. “What do you think?”

She doesn’t hesitate, “He should stay.”

Billy turns back to a stunned, weary looking Steve, “Well, you heard her.”

“I’ll call Hop.” El announces, smiling as she goes. But Steve doesn’t move. 

“Well, fucking get to it, Harrington.” Billy claps his hands, nodding his head in the direction of the back bedroom, “Don’t pass out on the floor.”

Steve just stands there, looking lost, sounding lost. “I can’t stay.”

And Billy’s about to bodily shove this idiot into the cabin if that’s what it takes, but Steve pauses. Finally stops to look directly at him. Billy holds his gaze. 

It’s weird. Almost like whiplash. Billy takes a moment and doesn’t feel guilty looking Harrington up and down.

Because he’s here, looking red-eyed and exhausted and a second away from breaking. Deep circles loom like dark shadows under his eyes, his lips bitten red from worry. His hair, flat and messy and shoved under his hoodie. A hoodie that has seen better days, and probably hasn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in quite some time. His jeans, ripped and dirtied and tucked into those dumb fucking forrest stomping boots. And Harrington’s just standing there, looking back at him. Open. Letting Billy look, letting him see him like this. 

Of all of the strange things Hawkins has churned out after he woke up, Harrington has got to be the strangest of all.

Billy doesn’t try to look too far into things, especially in a place like this where literally nothing makes sense ever. But Billy can’t help to identify the constant undercurrent of impossibility that plays out every time they meet like this. Them, Hawkins’ once and future king and the resident monster of a bad boy, standing across from each other. Just a few feet away. 

It’s electrifying. Mostly because they both know it shouldn’t be happening. And yet these moments continue to slip through. 

There’s a hard line between them, will always be, but it’s some kind of a good time getting to push it. 

Billy thinks about driving way too fast past a deputy squad card and not giving a single fuck about the ticket. 

Steve takes a step towards him. 

And another. 

And Billy thinks maybe he isn’t the only who likes to test the limits. 

“If I start,” Harrington keeps his head down, shakes it a little, almost whispers, “If I start screaming, I can’t stop, it’s bad.”

Billy laughs. “That sucks for you.”

And Harrington’s head snaps up, glaring at him. “Billy, I,”

“You think I can’t handle it?” Billy raises an eyebrow because honestly, Harrington needs to cut the crap. He isn’t the big bad wolf or some shit. 

“What?” Steve jerks back a little, “Why -”

“Harrington, come on.” Billy sighs, looking him up and down again, smirks, “You’re not as tough as you think you are.”

Steve freezes. Face pulled into that pinch of confusion and anger that’s just so fucking precious, “You don’t know. You don’t know what it’s like.” Harrington’s eyes search his, imploring, shaking, “I can, I’ve hit Hop before, when he’s tried to wake me up.”

“Oh, really?” Billy grins wide, he would _love_ to see Harrington clock one on the Chief. “Well, tell you what,” Billy sways forward, winks, “I will gladly knock you out if it comes to that, alright?”

Steve throws his hands up, probably ready to launch into some more bullshit but El is back. Standing right next to Billy. Handing Steve the ugliest knit blanket from the living room. 

“Hop says you can stay.” El tells Steve, nodding once. She turns to Billy, throws him a look that he translates to _you better handle this_ before promptly turning, levitating the mountains of blankets from couch, and taking them and herself to her own bedroom. 

“Told ya.” Billy shrugs, stepping aside. Motioning Steve past him. And he goes, albeit slowly and dragging his fucking feet, looking like he’s about to launch into another protest. Billy gives him a little shove as he goes past. “Now stop bothering me and go the fuck to sleep already.”

^ 

He’s not sure how it happens. He doesn’t even care about the _how_ any more. But one second he’s sleeping on the couch in Hopper’s cabin, and the next he’s alert. Sitting up. Fully awake. Like someone just snapped their fingers and pulled him directly into consciousness, bypassing that pesky ‘waking up’ business. 

He rolls his eyes. Recalls a time when Max flipped him off or slammed the door of the Camaro. He pulls into the feeling of deep annoyance, and does his best to send it in the direction of the curly haired supergirl in the next room. Is there anything she can’t fucking do? 

He doesn’t have time to consider it because he can hear it. It’s unmistakable in the quietness of the cabin. It’s a low, throaty type of yell. It breaks off. Pauses. And climbs in volume. 

Billy’s up and striding towards the door of the back bedroom in an instant. 

And he’s prepared, really, he is. It’s just another fight. He can easily pin Steve to the bed or to the wall if it comes to it, Harrington made be all long limbs and gangly but Billy knows he has enough muscle on him that, should it come to it, he can make him stop. And it’s funny, the thought that occurs to him as he’s opening Harrington’s door, all those times they talked about fighting. Actually fighting, hands and fists and tackles and body slams and angry words. All those times he was ready to throw down, and this is what he gets instead. 

Steve. Flopping and twisting around on the bed like he’s in pain. Like he can’t control it. Like some invisible force is inflicting its wrath. 

Steve is thrashing and yelling and _crying_ and Billy completely freezes. 

He couldn’t have been more wrong. 

This isn’t a fight at all. 

There’s a quick burst of _something_ that hits him right in the center of his back, knocking his center of balance off and forcing him to take a lurching step forward. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that El is probably right behind him, at the door, physically encouraging him that he get on with it and do his part. 

It’s just. 

This isn’t even a nightmare, really, it doesn’t look like. It looks like Steve is hurt and trying absolutely everything to get whatever is happening to him to stop. 

Billy’s throat runs dries. 

He. 

It’s just.

The need to touch is new and entirely overwhelming. He can feel it, a burn under his skin. Nerve endings snapping. Communication from his brain to his arm misfiring. And he doesn’t think. 

Doesn’t think beyond Steve’s white-knuckled grip on the bedsheet. Doesn’t think beyond the way Steve keeps twisting around with that bedsheet, how he’s about two seconds away from strangling himself with it if he continues. And he just moves. 

He leans down and grabs for Steve’s wrist, the one holding the sheet in a vice grip. 

“Hey, ease up. You’re gonna hurt yourself, dumbass.” 

He tugs but Steve’s forearm just rolls with him. The sheet, too. And Steve just rackets up the screaming. A continual stream of “no, no, no, no” and Billy’s temporarily stuck, considering his next move, when a very solid knee connects with his ribs. 

“Fuck.” His breath leaves him and he needs to reach out with one arm to prop himself up on the bed, or else he’ll fall over. “Jesus, Harrington. You have fucking bony knees.” 

Braced now, he expects the next one, can see it coming, watches as Steve twists over, gaining momentum, and Billy, thankfully, easily catches the next swing. 

With both of Harrington’s wrist in his grasp, it’s really second nature just to cross them, limit the range of mobility, 

And then Steve really starts _screaming_. 

Billy fumbles to loosen his grip, doesn’t want Steve to feel like he’s trapped. “Hey, come on man, wake up.” Billy can comfortably restrain Harrington’s arms, giving Steve enough space to pull out of it if he needs to, but holds them there. Eases Steve arms down to his sides. “No need to freak the fuck out and wake the dead, pretty boy. Alright? It’s just me.” 

“Are you done?” Billy speaks it more or less directly into Harrington’s ear, “Hey. Enough of this shit, right? 

He watches Steve’s leg slow. The kicks, slower. His body, twitching less. The sobs, collapsing into small little gasps of air. 

“Okay, alright.” Billy murmurs, “Fucking relax, you’re fine.” 

And Steve turns his head, letting the side of his face mash into the front of Billy’s shirt. Breathes. And goes absolutely dead weight in Billy’s arms. 

Billy has to brace, not expecting the full weight of Steve Harrington to collapse against him. He has to counterbalance and take a step back. Releasing his hold on Steve’s wrists, so he can use his hands to stabilize the unconscious shit, before he falls to the ground. He wraps an arm around Steve’s back, and Steve immediately curls himself up in the space created. 

Billy is more than a little uncomfortable. 

Steve is unconscious. He’s got an armful of a sleeping, deadweight, and still slightly twitching Harrington to prove it.

And, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself or someone else while he’s in the grip of a nightmare is one thing. But this? Billy looks down, and sighs deeply. Harrington’s got his head tucked into his shoulder, a hand fisting in Billy’s t-shirt, his whole upper body pressed into his chest. This is something else. Something that Steve should be awake for. 

Billy feels so stupid, running a hand up and down Steve’s arm, slightly shaking him. 

“You gotta wake up. Come on.” Billy turns, simultaneously trying to wake Harrington and push him back into the bed to give him space. 

Billy leans forward, and over him. Attempting to drop him back onto the mattress but Steve is also turning. Shuffling closer. And Billy feels Steve’s hands slide up over his shoulders, and circle around his neck. 

Billy freezes. 

His voice. Wavers. It’s rushed and unsteady, “Okay. Harrington. It’s me, man. Wake up. Don’t.” 

Steve pulls him fully down until Billy has no option but to sit, or crush him, and Steve just sort of toppled into him. 

Billy’s stomach drops. 

“Fuck.” He gasps, trying to extract himself. He pushes at Steve’s shoulders, “Wake up, dumbass. You don’t know what you’re doing, okay? It’s me.”

And. 

There are hands, tucking into the back of his shirt. And a body, pressing closer. And a small sniff as Harrington wriggles, his head pushing into the space between Billy’s shoulder and neck. 

“Course I know it’s you, stupid.” Steve huffs, voice scratchy and worn out. 

Billy feels every muscle in his body tighten, “You’re awake?” 

“Uh, yeah.” Steve mumbles, shifting closer. And Billy can’t fucking do this. 

“For fuck’s sake, Harrington.” Billy groans, looking up to the ceiling, asking for his suffering to be over. He pulls away, pushing Steve’s hands back away from him. And Harrington flips. 

“No, please. No.” Steve tightens his hold, his voice high and breaking over the _please_, “No, you, just don’t. Okay? Don’t leave.” He’s shaking his head, still scrambling for purchase on Billy’s shirt. 

And. 

Billy can’t do this. He can’t. He can’t be this close. He can’t hold Steve like that. Not like this. Steve doesn’t know, he doesn’t know what he’s doing and he doesn’t understand that Billy still’s flirting with the idea that this is still some procured hallucination. One last mirage the Upside Down’s conjured up for him, just to fuck with him. He woke up and somehow stumbled into a family, somehow left that awful fucking house, somehow managed to open his eyes and breathe everyday. Somehow making it to the next day. He can’t. He still can’t believe he has all of that. So, he can’t possibly have this too. 

This could never be real. Because it can’t be. Because Steve Harrington doesn’t do this. They don’t do this. And no one, no one ever in the history of his life, seeks Billy out for comfort. 

“I have to,” Billy starts but trails off, ashamed, trying not to sound like the coward that he fucking is. 

“I don’t care, alright?” Steve snaps. Takes a deep sigh and then rambles out, “I don’t. Just don’t leave. Complain. Yell at me. Call me dumb or gross or weird. Do that thing where you roll your eyes and sigh at the same time. I don’t fucking care. Just,” Steve pushes himself up now, slowly, until they’re both sitting near edge of the bed. “Don’t go. Not yet.” And Steve tips forward, resting his forehead on Billy’s shoulder, which in marginally better than Steve attempting to climb into his lap. “Let me have this, Hargrove.” Steve pleads, honest in his hoarse whisper, “For like, sixty more seconds.” 

And Steve just gets right up in there, leaning against him and taking these deep, steadying breaths. Like this is somehow helping. 

Billy counts to sixty in his head. 

There’s something about having Steve close. This close. That makes it impossible for Billy to think about anything else. He’s been stupid for Harrington since that morning in the woods. That’s never been in question. But Billy knows things started even before that. And fuck, Steve doesn’t make it easy. 

He’s good with where he is. Which is a statement he never though he’d make. And he knows a lot of that has to do with this weird and tenuous space they’ve created between them. So Billy isn’t caving, not giving a single fucking inch, biting back every rash and impulsive thing he’s craving to do, maybe for the first time in his life, because he’s not losing this too. 

Billy counts to sixty, again. Waits. Shifts. 

“Harrington.” 

“Hm?” Steve intones, already sounding sleepy.

Billy pulls back, gently pushing Steve back down into mattress. This time, Steve lets him. 

He’s able to finally stand, takes a step away from the bed, putting distance between them and finding himself able to breathe properly again. 

“Go the fuck to sleep, alright?” Billy says on his retreat, softly. Makes his way to the door. 

“Yeah. Yeah, fine.” Steve mumbles, turning into his pillow, eyes already closing. “But you’ll be here?” He asks around a yawn. 

Billy rolls his eyes but nods in the direction of the cabin’s living room. “I’ll be out there, yeah.” 

Steve hums a tone of assent, and Billy watches his eyes slip shut. He shakes his head one last time and turns to leave. 

“Don’t stay up too late reading, nerd.” Steve calls out just as Billy’s shutting his door.


	18. better.

Billy would never admit it aloud, but the floral patio chairs Harrington brought over are actually pretty fucking comfortable. 

He can sit, back firmly pushed into the soft cushions of the chair, kick his feet up onto the rail of the deck, and not mind being alive in Hawkins, Indiana for a little while. 

Normally he reads. When there’s not enough daylight to read, he’ll smoke. Sometimes he’ll just stare out into the lake. Mostly he’ll leave his stereo pressed up close to one of the bedroom’s windows, turn it facing out, and blast his music for the whole forest to enjoy. 

There’s something else that happens, too. And Billy’s still not a hundred percent sure it’s not a lingering hallucination. It still feels like it might not be real. Because it only ever happens in the hours before dawn. Hours when Billy should be sleeping. And not fucking waiting like an idiot. It only ever happens when the lake is still like glass, the air fresh like a new cut, and when the words fall thick and easy. 

There’s a shuffle. Billy watches it out of the corner of his eye. It’s dark, but he can make out the well practiced move of a half-jump and hurdle over the side of the deck. This is also another point that Billy sticks to, real people use the front door. 

Harrington drops into the open seat next to him. All long limbs tucked up like a pretzel, his hoodie pulled up so Billy can’t see his face, or his stupid floppy hair. Not that Billy’s looking. His gaze, perpetually drawn out over the dark blues and purples reflected in the lake. 

He thinks, if this is actually another fucked up illusion the Upside Down has dropped into his head, he's cool with it. 

Long minutes stretch between them. 

Harrington swipes his pack of smokes off the small table between them, lights up. Billy only allows it because he likes the way Steve still coughs after the first drag, the loser. 

Steve exhales, the bright blue of the smoke curling up against the sky. Then. 

“How are you so much better at this than I am?” Steve asks the trees, quiet voice hushed in the quiet air, and pulls his knees tight to his chest. 

Billy smirks, “Be more specific.” He taps out his own finished cigarette, “I’m better at everything.” 

Steve sighs, low and mostly to himself. And stays quiet so long Billy thinks that’s the end of that line of inquiry. 

But then he’s shifting. Billy can hear him but doesn’t look over. Doesn’t look over until he knows Steve is looking at him. Waiting. And so he turns his head, just enough. And Steve’s pulled his hood down. His wild hair further mussed up by the wind. His eyes, unsteady but still bright in the darkness. 

“You were possessed.” Steve states, low and clear. “By the Mind Flayer. You were fucking trapped down there for weeks. And you didn’t even have like, any idea that any of that shit existed.”

Billy grabs for his pack, knowing he’ll need another cigarette for this. “Thanks for the reminder.” 

“Weeks!” Steve shouts at the sky, throwing his hands up. “Fucking weeks, Billy. You were stuck in that fucked up hellhole for weeks are yet you still managed to keep your shit together.” Steve pushes back into his chair, crossing his arms like he’s mad about it. Billy tries not to think that this is the most Harrington’s ever said to him when he’s here like this, or that this is the first time either of them have directly addressed it. 

“Not me though, right?” Steve’s laugh is dry and empty, “I was gone for a day, man. One fucking day. And apparently I lost my fucking mind.”

There’s a quick and easy retort, right on the tip of his tongue. Something nasty and teasing that will push them far away from this topic. But Billy can’t get those words out. 

It’s not a need to connect that prompts him. Really. It’s identifying the tone Harrington laces in his words, the painful anger of being judged for something you can’t control. It’s something he’s too familiar with. 

“You were also tortured.” Billy offers. 

“Yeah,” Steve shakes his head, “but I,”

“And drugged.” 

“Okay, yeah, but like.” Harrington sighs, frustrated, “Only for a short time.”

Billy allows a small laugh. _Only for a short time_, what an idiot. He blows smoke up into the sky, inclines his head. 

“And you escaped.” Billy clips, he obviously wasn’t available to witness it, but he’s heard enough from the kids. Especially El and Max, about the heroics Harrington actually got up to that night. It’s something. 

But now Harrington has turned to fully face him, one knee tucked up underneath him, leaning forward. Doing that thing with his face where it’s wide open and masked off at the same time. His eyes, his stupid fucking eyes, flicking over Billy’s face. 

“So what are you saying?” Steve asks very carefully. 

_That some things are worth losing your mind over_, is Billy’s immediate response. But that’s too close. Even if it is true. And it is, he knows it is. 

Steve likes to pretend that he’s something that he’s not, he’s always been that way. It’s exactly the reason why Billy hated him so much. And, at least in Billy’s fucked-up brain, after everything he’s been through, that’s the beauty in losing it all. In breaking down. There’s no more pretending, no more facades, no more bullshit. You’re just wandering around the woods at dawn, screaming at the sky, in the most honest version of yourself. Letting it all burn down in one magnificent fire. 

But he’s not saying any of that aloud. 

Steve’s still looking at him, waiting. Like he really cares what Billy has to say about it. And that’s also something. 

“I don’t know,” he gruffs out, twists away from the attention, makes his mouth move around the words, “maybe cut yourself some slack?”

Steve just stares at him. Eyebrows pinched, and Billy wants so badly to make a comment about how that confused look is Steve’s default setting. He doesn’t. 

“Yeah, but, it’s just.” Harrington continues, quieter, “After what you went through, how are you so,” and he trails off, gesturing in Billy’s direction. And he’s happy to fill in the blanks, this part is easy, he settles back into a smirk. 

“Charming? Devastatingly handsome? Still smarter than you?” 

Steve rolls his eyes, “Normal. I was going to say normal, asshole.”

This time, Billy can’t stop the force of dark laughter that pulls from him. 

“Harrington.” His finally turns his body fully in his direction, lets his smirk pull wide and lazy. “It’s fucking four o’clock in the morning. And you’re voluntarily sitting here next to me.” Billy laughs, pushing back into the chair, “None of this is normal.”

He doesn’t watch it. He tells himself he doesn’t see it. The way Steve’s face falls just for a moment. 

“But it’s better, right?” Steve asks, and it’s the cautious tone that has Billy turning back. 

“What’s better?” 

“That’s what you’re supposed to say.” Harrington motions between them. “You’re supposed to tell me that it gets better. That you’re better now than you were before. You know, you’re supposed to say that it will all work out eventually and that I won’t be such a fucking mess for the rest of my life.” 

And that. He. Billy freezes. 

Is it better? Is this better? Is he better than he was before he got possessed by the Mind Flayer? He’s changed, sure. Everything has changed. But is is better?

How can he. How does he know? How would he measure that? 

Would he, would it even matter if that were true? Would it mean anything if he was _better_?

Billy doesn’t make a habit of looking around and noticing good things. Better things. Doesn’t ever admit to liking something if he knows he can lose it. And this. Steve sitting here. On this deck. In a place that Billy wouldn’t ever dream to call _his_. In this space they somehow managed to create between them. Where words can fall thick and easy. Billy will hold onto this with two hands but he wouldn’t dare to call it better. 

But Steve is asking. 

And Billy can't tell him the rest of that bullshit he wants to hear. Can't tell him he'll get better because there's nothing to make better. Can't tell him it will work out eventually when it's already working fine. Can't tell him he won't be a mess, cause he will. He will always be a mess and Billy can't tell him that's his favorite part. 

Steve snickers in Billy's silence. 

“Didn’t mean to break you there, Hargrove.” And Steve’s blowing out smoke and falling back into his chair. 

“Shut up.” Billy grounds out, feeling like an idiot, his head still spinning. 

“It’s fine.” Steve sighs, lies. “Anyway, at least your Saturday nights have to be better than before, right?”

Billy still can’t catch up, still feels like a cop-out for not responding to Steve, still sitting there really wondering _is it actually Saturday night_? 

“Why’s that?” Billy asks, looks over. And regrets it. Steve’s smile is wide and goofy. 

“Because now you spend them with me.”

Billy huffs, shakes his head. 

“You sleep all the time. Hardly good company.” Billy throws out, because it’s true. He can count on one hand the number of times Steve has dropped by like this, but each time he either stays so quiet for so long in that fucking chair that Billy just leaves him to it. Or, he’ll come back from dropping the girls off at a school, the sound of the Camaro crunching gravel probably enough to wake him up, and Billy will catch Steve stretching like a cat in the morning sun before jumping back over the railing of the deck. And, hopefully, walking back towards wherever he parked his car on the road below. 

“Whatever.” Steve waves a dismissive hand like it’s not the weirdest fucking thing, “You know it’s like, the only time I sleep.” 

And.

He. 

“What.” Billy states, his tone flat and dangerous.

“Yeah, man.” Steve nods like Billy already knows, like everyone knows, “Hopper’s place. Sometimes at Robin’s. And, you know, here.”

“What the fuck?” Billy declares, his voice, maybe a touch too loud. But honestly, fuck Harrington. Because he’s looking at these fucking plastic chairs, noticing the cold gusts of pre-dawn air filling the space and - he loves this deck, he does. The deck is great for napping, sure. But he also has a fucking couch. And it’s a nice couch. And it’s inside. Where it’s _warm_. Where people _should sleep_. And that _fucking idiot_ why didn’t he ever _say anything_. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Billy snaps, scaring some birds from their trees. 

“Don’t start.” Steve cuts him a warning look, mistaking the direction of Billy’s anger. 

“No. I mean.” Billy stops to take a breath and consciously lowers his voice, “Like, what the fuck? You can’t, you can’t live like that.”

“Can’t sleep in an empty house, either.” Is Steve’s immediate response, “Not anymore at least, or I’ll -” 

“Stalk into the woods and rant and rave like a lunatic howling at the moon?”

Steve smiles at that, but it’s a small, pale thing. And Billy gets too caught up in paying attention to it. To the way Steve’s gaze drifts back over to the lake. 

“Watch the sunrise.” Steve says, and Billy’s watching his face too closely to not notice the calm, almost reverent way Steve pauses over the horizon. And he loses the plot. 

“What?”

“That’s what I do. Did.” 

“You.” Billy pauses, looks towards the skyline and then back at Steve, like that will help. “Watch the sunrise?” He questions, wincing at the tone of judgement in his own voice. But come on, _really_. 

“Yeah.” Steve smiles, breathless. “Just to make sure it does.” And he juts his chin out, proud and unashamed. Looking back over to him like he’s daring Billy to say something about it. 

Billy doesn’t hear anything but the, _You wanna fight, Hargrove?_

He’s speechless. Mesmerized. Fucked. 

“It’s just,” Steve continues, “well, you know better than anyone. In the Upside Down, there’s no sun. The sun doesn’t rise. It’s all just,”

“Darkness.” Billy finishes, involuntarily shivering against the cold. 

“Yeah.” Steve nods solemnly, gazed pulled back out over the lake. “So sometimes the only thing that makes it all stop is checking to make sure the sun rises.”

Billy thinks of a wild and frantic Steve Harrington. Half out of his mind. Out wandering Hawkins. By himself. Yelling at the sun to fucking _rise_. No. That’s not it. _Daring_ the sun not to. Single-handedly bullying the Upside Down to stay the fuck away for another twenty four hours. Because he’ll be back.

“Yeah, I know it’s stupid.” Steve mumbles, tucking further back into his chair. 

“It makes sense.” 

“What?”

“Well, it doesn’t.” Billy shrugs, but that’s the beauty of it, you know? “But I get it.”

Steve sits up again, wide fucking doe eyes, “You do?”

There’s a touch of incredulity in Steve’s tone that makes Billy want to punch someone. 

“Well, of course _you_ do.” Steve continues, tipping his head, “But you’ve never felt like you had to check or else you’d fall apart?”

Billy shakes his head. There are so many other lingering effects, but no, that’s not one of them. Wouldn’t do Steve any good to lie to him about it. And Steve, he, he nods like he understands. But Billy can see the undercurrent of unease. It’s difficult. To talk about it. And Billy doesn’t. He doesn’t talk about it because it doesn’t help. Doesn’t help him. 

But here’s Steve. With no goddamn motive or agenda, willingly spewing all of this shit. So maybe it helps Steve. 

The things he does for this idiot. 

Billy lights up another cigarette, waits for all of the words to unstick in his throat. 

“But, uh,” he coughs, shifts to cross his arms over his chest, “the part that really got me about that place?” 

“Yeah?” Steve perks up. 

“The whole _kill your double_ vibe down there really freaked me the fuck out.” Billy admits, for the first time. To anyone. 

And Steve just takes it in, nodding, rolling with it, “I hated watching my Upside Down self do shit.” 

Billy shivers. Because yeah. That’s it exactly. 

“Fuck that, you know?” Steve continues, emboldened, “And sometimes it felt like-”

“You couldn’t tell them apart?” Billy hears himself reply. 

“Yeah.” Steve sighs deeply, dropping his shoulders. 

“Yeah.” Billy agrees. 

And they sit there. Staring out over the lake. Both caught up in their own memories. 

“Oh.” Steve shifts, turning to face him again. Stares at him. 

“What?” Billy tries not to snap out. 

“That’s why you cut your hair?”

And. Steve catches a lot of shit for being oblivious most of the time, but he put that one together pretty quickly. Billy considers lying, but finds himself incapable of doing just that tonight. 

“Yeah.” He shrugs, noncommittally. Like it wasn’t the very first thing he _demanded_ after waking up. 

“It doesn’t look stupid.” Harrington supplies, looking adorably contrite. 

“I know,” Billy laughs out over the water, shakes his hands through it, “it looks good as hell.”

“It really does.” Steve nods seriously, “Especially when you pull it all up.”

Billy cuts him a look before having to look away, “Shut it, pretty boy.”

“You know,” Steve intones, all ridiculous and dramatic, and Billy can already feel an eye roll coming on, “El asked me what she should get you for Christmas.”

“What.” Billy bellows. How does that even make sense? It’s not even November? In what world are El and Steve talking about Billy and Christmas presents in the same conversation? That’s, that’s not a possibility, he -

“I said scrunchies.” Steve practically sings, gleeful and irritating. 

“Harrington.” Billy’s head connects with the back of the patio chair, sighing mightily and wondering what he did to deserve this. 

“So act surprised.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Some of them are so cool now! Like they have tie dye ones and-”

Billy throws an empty beer can at him. 

“Get off my deck.”


	19. boys.

Max and El talk Billy into driving to his coffee place after school. 

He supposed to dump them off at the cabin per Hopper’s orders, but as soon as they tumbled into the Camaro after school, they insisted that they both had _the worst_ day and the only thing that could possibly fix it are those ridiculous crepes his coffee shop is also famous for. 

Billy turns up his nose, those ‘crepes’ are just an excuse for a mountain of melted fudge and whipped cream and sprinkles and he tells them this.

And that’s when he realized he was the only thing standing between two teenage girls and chocolate and the chorus of complaints crescendoed. 

He almost laughed, but knew better. And let them both, and yes both, El was surprisingly vocal in the matter, talk him into making a stop. 

It didn’t take much, honestly. It’s an unseasonably warm day and Billy wouldn’t turn away an iced tea right now. But he still grumbles and scoffs and rolls his eyes when they plead and badger him about it, just for form. 

So they post up outside right in front of the store. There’s some spectacular afternoon sun warming the metal table and chairs where they’re sitting. Max and El are tucking into their monstrous crepes with abandon, gleefully destroying them while debriefing about something that happened at school that Billy doesn’t need to be apart of. He’s content to let it float past him, certain they’ll let him know when they’re ready to leave. Because anyway, Billy’s got his shades pulled low, his hair pulled up so the sun can hit the back of his neck, and his latest book in his grips. His iced mint tea sits at his elbow, and he tunes the rest of Hawkins out for a bit. 

“Mike is annoying.” 

Billy almost doesn’t catch it, El speaks it softly. Makes it sound like a question. And Billy’s not having any of that shit. 

But Max is already on her, sighing dramatically, “What did that dumbass do this time?” 

El pushes at her plate, sits back in her seat. Billy keeps his eyes on his book but he can tell El’s struggling with putting the words together for this one. 

He hears El huff in frustration, her curls tumbling as she shakes her fingers through her hair. 

Billy considers offering to leave. It makes sense if El doesn’t want to talk about it, in front of him. 

“Hey.” Max leans forward, pushing her drink out of the way. Grabs her gently by the wrist. “It’s okay. Say whatever you need to say, however you need to say it.”

It takes a few seconds but El gets it out, her voice bolder now. 

“He’s there. He’s always right there.” 

And it’s the way she says it, like boys are put on this earth specifically just to annoy her that gets Billy laughing. 

El’s gaze cuts to him. 

“He’s clingy.” Billy offers, slurping obnoxiously from his iced tea and flipping a page. He shakes his head. “Not a good look, kid.” 

“Clingy?” El tilts her head a little, sounding out the unfamiliar word. She turns to look at Max. 

Max smiles, always ready to explain, “Yeah, you know how he’s like, always right next to you? Won’t stop bothering you? Always blabbering nonstop about random shit? That’s clingy.” 

She scoffs the word, crosses her arms over her chest, “What an idiot. You need to tell him you need space.” 

“Space?” El repeats, sounding intrigued. Her eyes glance over to him and Billy fights down a little wave of something. It’s finally hitting him that he’s maybe actually purposefully included in this conversation. 

“Yeah, like, time to yourself?” Max continues, gesticulating seriously, “To like, process all of this crap on your own. Time to breath and just be yourself.” She shakes her head in finality, “You gotta tell him that so he’ll back off.” 

“How?” El asks, glancing from brother to sister. 

And finally, he smiles, _he’s got this_. 

Billy snorts, finally looks up. Because this one is easy. He glances over to El and taps the side of his head, “Like this.” 

El looks confused for a brief second before smiling that electric smiling and sliding a hand up, fingertips at his temple. 

It’s easier, this time. Lets his eyes slip shut. Lets himself recall the memory. Happily. He’s pretty sure he’s even still outwardly smiling. 

*

It’s a small moment but it’s the feeling he remembers most. 

He’s kicking some poor sap out of his car. He skips over their previous activities for the benefit of his present company, but the lingering kick of amusement is still there. The rush. And the words come tumbling out of his mouth easily, he knows exactly what he wants. And he’s not compromising. 

Thanks for the good time but no, I’m not staying. No, I don’t know if I’ll call. No, I don’t know if there will be a next time. Yes, that’s all there is. No, you don’t get any further explanations. Get out of my car. 

It’s an addicting feeling, knowing that you’re in control of what you want and being unapologetic about it. He easily slides into the feeling, hoping that El can feel that the most through the memory. Because that’s what he wants her to know, to experience. That power. The authority she has to ask for and refuse anything she wants or doesn’t want. That when it comes to matters like this, she doesn’t have to appease anyone except herself. 

That specific, ‘I don’t need you, I’m good, I decide, I’m my own person’ type of freeing feeling that you can hold on tight to. It’s probably the only thing he can actually teach her that would be like, a good thing. 

Plus she’s already a badass, she just needs to enforce her ‘don’t fuck with me’ stare more often. Especially with annoying, idiotic middle school boys. 

He shifts the memory forward. Billy remembers 100% feeling himself. Snapping his denim jacket back on and lighting up. Rolling the windows down and speeding off, leaving them behind. Some AC/DC song blasting from the Camaro’s stereo. He lets the memory linger, if only to let El feel that deep seated satisfaction of screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs, feeling every single fucking syllable in your bones.

_So look at me now / I’m just makin’ my play / Don’t try to push your luck, just get out of my way_

*

He snaps out of it and El is laughing. Laughing at his horrible, yet incredibly on point singing. Looking up at him in something that looks too much like awe. 

Max hits him on the arm, hard, pulling him out of it. 

“Did you show her something awful?!” She groans, “Don’t poison her with your grossness, Billy.” 

And. He’s about to snap something back to her when he freezes. 

Because. 

He runs the memory back. 

And very quietly and subtlety, freaks the fuck out. 

Billy was so caught up in the feeling he wanted to pass on, he didn’t even consider the implications of the whole memory. He can feel the color start to drain from his face, because, he was certainly telling someone off. And that someone was definitely a boy. 

He looks over at El to gauge her reaction but she’s just still laughing around it. Happily answering all of Max’s questions about what happened, what she saw. Trying to describe it in her own unique way that just leads to more laughter between them. 

He can’t even offer up a response when they start teasing him about his singing. 

Billy continues to look over El but she doesn’t seem bothered or freaked or grossed out or upset so he, maybe it’s okay? 

He runs a hand through his hair, breathes out. Of course it’s not okay. 

“As long as he didn’t, you know,” Max pauses to glare over at him, “traumatize you or anything.” 

El shakes her head. Grabbing for her drink, “No.” She takes a sip. “Helpful.” 

She smiles up at him and Billy can only muster up a weak one in return. His stomach sinks. Should he talk to her? 

“Well, good.” Max concedes, “And if that doesn’t work, do what I do. Threaten to kick them in the balls.” 

The girls erupt in laughter and of course, because Billy’s life now is just a fucking train-wreck, that’s exactly the moment Steve Harrington walks by their table. 

All three of them look up as Steve comes to a stop at their table, looking over at them with that wide and goofy smile of his. 

Harrington looks fucking _delighted_. 

“Well, look at this group of troublemakers.” Steve practically beams, nodding at Max and El. Both girls blush with pride, smiling up at him. 

Billy rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses. 

“Hey, I just got off my shift.” Steve motions behind him, in the direction of the video store, “Got room for one more?” 

And Billy’s considering the possibility of leaving Max and El to fend for themselves but El is sitting up her chair. Crossing her arms. 

“No.” El announces. 

Billy snaps his head in her direction. 

“No?” Steve repeats, laughing with disbelief. 

“No.” El just shrugs. She pauses, sends a significant look in Billy’s direction that makes him feel like she’s seeing through him, before she glances back up at Steve. “No. We’re talking about boys. No boys allowed.” 

Max gasps out a shocked/impressed sound. Before ripping into more laughter. 

Billy’s pretty sure he’s grinning like a fool, made better when he catches Harrington’s stupid face go all sad and pathetic. 

“Then how come Billy gets to stay?” Harrington asks, gesturing at him, sounding petulant. 

El shrugs likes it's obvious. 

“He stays.”

Billy’s glad for his sunglasses, they’re currently hiding his utter astonishment. He never thought … 

Steve is stumbling out something and Max cuts him off, explaining, albeit a little reluctantly. 

“Yeah, you know, he’s like, part of the group or whatever.” She waves a dismissive hand. Literally shooing Steve Harrington away and Billy can’t help but laugh. 

Finally Steve looks over at him, the desire for help written plain across his face. 

Billy just smirks. A stupid feeling blooming heavy and warm in his chest. “You heard ‘em, Harrington. Move it along.”


	20. close.

More than anything, Billy appreciates Steve’s complete lack of grace and coordination. 

There’s just this quality to it, something entirely un-kingly. Something that says, can’t rule over Hawkins when you can’t even manage the stairs. 

Billy fucking _loves_ it. 

You know, it’s quiet out here. In the trailer. In the middle of the woods. So fucking quiet. All of the time. And yeah, even with the temperatures dropping into the low forties overnight, he still has at least one window open. Meaning that it doesn’t take much of anything to alert Billy’s attention. The snapping of a branch. The crunch of gravel beneath tires. The call of birds scattering out from trees. 

So it’s just endearing. And real fucking obvious. Listening to Steve Harrington attempt to scale his deck, wrestling over the railing, gracelessly tumbling into hard wood below, probably knocking into a table or chair. Mumbling curses as he goes. 

Billy really has to talk to him about using the front door. If only to save Harrington some embarrassment. 

It’s one of the rare nights that Billy’s not right out there with him. Because he was actually sleeping. And they do that sometimes, too. Billy can’t explain it. There’s just something different in the air those nights. Like he knows Steve just needs to be out there by himself. And he leaves him the hell alone. 

Billy’s not sure if tonight is one of those nights. But what he does know is that he’s super fucking comfortable, super fucking sleepy, and not likely to move in the near future. So. 

Harrington will wake him if he needs him. He’s sure. And at least he’s here, not out wandering the woods. Billy turns, pulling his blankets with him, and collapses back into his pillow. Slow, deep and even breaths come easily. 

And what was that about Hawkins not letting him enjoy the nice things? 

Because. 

He’s nodding off, truly. In that blissful half-asleep, perfectly comfortable, warm and relaxed feeling that’s been so fucking elusive after Everything Happened. 

And there’s pressure, a dip in the mattress. 

Billy bolts upright. Blinks up blearily at Harrington, who has one knee pressed into his bed. And can’t, for the life of him, figure out why. 

“Um.” Billy clears his throat, “Are you lost?” 

“Shut up.” Harrington gruffs out, straightens up. “Also. Move over.”

And Billy hears the soft thud of sneakers hitting the carpet. Watches Steve zip his sweatshirt off, tossing it aside. Billy freezes. 

“Harrington. What are you doing?”

Steve just shrugs. Attempts to pull back the blankets. “It's raining outside.”

And Billy stares. Just stares at him. Wondering how the fuck the weather has anything to do with Harrington thinking he can just climb into his bed. 

He shakes his head a little, trying to clear it, he’s obviously missing something, right? But Harrington is still just right there, just taking up space, looking down at Billy like he’s the strange one. 

“I have a couch.” Billy feels the need to explain. “A nice couch. A really fucking nice couch, actually. It’s in the living room.” And he gestures, in case Harrington needs it spelled out for him. 

“You're really not going to move over?” Steve responds, sighing. Plants his knee back into the mattress and successfully pulls back the blankets on that side. Billy feels a rush of cool air assault his skin, and all but growls. 

But Harrington is as oblivious as always, searching for something now around Billy’s head. “Wait, do you really only have one pillow?” Steve scoffs. 

“Go sleep on the fucking couch.” Billy grumbles out, beyond annoyed, and clutches at his one pillow so he doesn’t smother Harrington with it. Tempting as that may be. 

“But you’re in here.” Steve states, and moves to sit down on the bed. Obnoxiously twisting to yank off his socks. 

“Harrington.” Billy sighs deeply, frustration now fully settling in. Steve just doesn’t get to do stuff like this because he fucking feels like it. 

“No.” Steve turns to face him now, his voice harder, “Listen, I’m not doing this shit tonight, alright? I’m too fucking tired.” 

“Doing what?” Billy pushes himself up to his elbows, sensing dangerous waters. But Harrington’s still just sitting there, at the edge of his bed, looking tired and cold in his thin white t-shirt, staring him down. 

Steve raises one eyebrow, smirking a little. And it’s an actual mirror image of Billy’s own unimpressed look, thrown back at him, that Billy finds himself unable to formulate a response. 

There’s a laugh, just a short rush of air, and Steve’s swinging his legs up, flopping back onto the small space available. 

“It’s just you and me, alright? You do realize that?” Steve mumbles, twisting about to get comfortable. 

Billy jerks back when Steve’s knee connects with his own. 

“Will you fucking relax?” Harrington snaps out, while wriggling himself into the space Billy just gave up. Moving _closer_ to him. 

He watches Harrington just flip and flop around like an idiot. Let’s him pull free all of the blankets, ‘cause he’s fucked to do literally anything else but stare. 

It’s just. 

Billy doesn’t get scared. 

Not anymore. He’s too used to it. Desensitized to it. Doesn’t feel it anymore. Scared is never something anyone would accuse him of. It doesn’t happen. Plus, he’s already been through the worst of it. He’s been through hell, twice. Survived monsters, twice. There’s just nothing else out there that can cause that kind of fear. 

Except maybe this. 

“Hey.” Harrington pushes himself up, just enough to look over at him. Eyes nearly shining in the low light of the room. And he’s close. Way too fucking close. Close and more dangerous than he’s ever been. And Billy’s frozen. He’s sure. Ice fucking cold, all the way through. He’s surprised Harrington hasn’t commented about it. Because he must be able to feel it. He must. Billy’s nothing but a solid sheet of thick ice coating the surface of the lake. 

(He’s terrified.)

“Billy?” Steve’s ducking down against the pillow he still has in a death grip, meets his gaze. And Billy’s pinned. Unblinking. Returning a blank stare. He watches Steve’s eyes narrow, _at him_. Watches Steve’s face, all his features, twist in concern. And Billy’s head spins. 

“Okay, hey.” Harrington drops his voice to a whisper, all soft and low and Billy feels it like a knife to the stomach. “I’ll go, okay? If you don’t want me here, I’m gone. That’s not a problem. At all. Just, say something?” 

Billy almost laughs. Because what’s there to say? 

Remember when I came from your throne? Knocked you down? Remember when I _liked_ doing whatever I could to make you suffer? Remember when I broke a plate over your head? Remember when my hands messed up that face? Remember when I was the only monster in Hawkins, tormenting your little nerd club? Remember when I was the Mind Flayer? Tore up half the town? Killed people? 

Before, during, and after. It’s true. Billy’s always been the most terrifying thing in Hawkins. And here’s Harrington. Without a shred of self-preservation. Still the only one stupid enough to push back. To get close. 

Billy hold his gaze. Observes. There’s no shake in Harrington’s voice or tightness in his shoulders. There’s no caution in his eyes or restraint in anything he’s doing. 

“You’re not scared?” 

Steve inclines his head, “Of what?” 

_Of what_, Jesus. Billy takes a ragged breath. Tries to tell himself to calm the fuck down. Waits. 

“No. fuck, no.” Steve scoffs, laughs quietly, “Scared? Billy, I have enough things to be afraid of, believe me.” Steves pauses, shakes his head. “Not you. _Jesus_, never you." 

And Billy wants to snap back a joke. To break the tension he can feel crushing against his chest. Something about how Steve would be the first one to die in one of those horror flicks if he doesn’t have enough sense to be afraid of the big bad monster. But it gets stuck. Somewhere between him wondering when was the last time someone elected to be this close to him, and meant it. Without pressing for something else. Just to be here. 

He draws a blank. 

And Steve’s shrugging, a gesture hard to pull off when you’re laying on your side, “And besides, kind of hard to be scared when you’re next to an actual monster slayer, you know?”

Harrington says it with this dumb little laugh, blinking shyly over at Billy, his stupid eyes fucking blinding in the darkness. And Billy can feel his stomach drop. 

“That’s not.” He clears his throat, “I’m not, that’s not me.” And Billy shifts, onto his back. Has to close his eyes. Because if that’s what Steve thinks of him, it’s best to leave it here. 

“Yes.” Steve’s voice is low, clear. Reaches over to grab his forearm. “Billy, yes it is.” 

“That’s not everything.” Billy says to the ceiling, glaring up at it. Because this is probably it. He’s not some savior. He didn’t fight the Mind Flayer out of a sense of moral justice. He did it to save himself. He doesn’t even remember much of it, to be honest. But he knows, he knows that even if many people see that as the first ‘good’ thing he’s done - it doesn’t outweigh all of the bad things. 

“You don’t think I know that?” Steve scoffs, almost incredulous. And he’s sitting up now, looking down at Billy with a little more heat, a little more anger. 

It’s. 

Billy’s not going to hold the line if Steve puts up a fight. 

“Harrington.” He sighs, but it sounds more like a plea than a warning. 

“No.” Steve’s voice cuts like glass in the small space, “Don’t start.” He points an accusatory finger at Billy’s chest, “Don’t fucking start that shit, okay? Tell me to leave. Tell me you need space. Tell me you don’t fucking feel this and I’m out of here.” Steve’s gesturing wide, his volume climbing, “But don’t.” He wavers, just for a beat, “Don’t lie to me, Billy Hargrove.” 

Steve’s eyes are shining, rimmed with fast emotions and flares of pain. His next words are much quieter, almost whispered into the space between them. “You’re one of the only ones that doesn’t lie to me these days. Don’t start now.” 

Harrington demands his gaze, and waits. Holds it. 

And something clicks. 

Billy looks over at this impossibility in his bed. Because that’s what it is. Impossible. Little girls with superpowers and mind-controlling monsters are much easier to understand. How many more impossible things will Hawkins allow? Really, what’s one more? 

Steve is loud and angry and damp from his earlier walk in the rain. His hair has dried frizzy. He’s all long limbs, tucked up awkwardly, filling up the already tight space on the bed. And he’s got the look, all sharp angles and jutting chin. It’s a look Billy’s seen twice before, once in the forest that first morning. Once when Steve told him he watches the sun rise. It’s a blatant challenge. And it’s intoxicating. 

And annoying as fuck. 

Because Billy won’t lie to him. Can’t. He’s actually physically unable to because he’s already jumped off the cliff. Crashed at the bottom. Will happily live out the rest of his life amongst the rocks, as a pile of broken bones. 

And the things is? 

He cuts his gaze back up to Steve’s face, landing on that stupid fucking half-smirk playing across his lips. 

The bastard fucking _knows_ that. 

Steve already knows. Like he’s already seen all the cards Billy’s holding. Like he’s known all along that this is exactly where he’d end up. Billy wonders when, exactly, Steve outsmarted him. 

“That’s really why you’re here?” Billy asks, because Harrington might know, but Billy sure as hell doesn’t. 

And Steve’s lips form into a small, sad smile. 

And then there’s a hand, moving. Slowly. Reaching out. And Billy feels cold fingertips brush across his neck. Then there’s a featherlight press, right over the bridge of his nose. Crooked from when his old man busted it. It traces up, runs gently over an eyebrow, past the small scar above it from a fight they both don’t talk about. 

And Steve’s wriggling forward, just an inch. Not enough to start anything but enough to reach for the hem of Billy’s sweatshirt. Doesn’t hesitate when he lets his hand slip under. Just enough to brush over the delicate skin below Billy’s ribs. 

Steve passes over the tattoo just once, before he’s pulling back. Settling himself down against the mattress. 

And. 

Billy might be made of solid ice but Steve’s tougher. Cracks right through it. 

“Yeah.” And Steve’s smiling, rolling his eyes. Flopping back against the bed, “That’s why I’m here.” 

“Also.” Steve uses some unfair twist of momentum to turn onto his side and tug all the blankets with him, “I’m staying until the rain stops. So move the fuck over and share your goddamn pillow.”


	21. pretty.

Billy woke up with no pillow, no covers, and completely pushed to the far edge of the bed. 

He sat up enough to look out over his shoulder, to see Harrington fucking sprawled in the middle of his bed. All loose limbed and gangly. Face smashed into his pillow, wild hair sticking up in all directions, no doubt probably drooling and sleeping the dead sleep of the truly passed out. 

Must be nice. 

Billy sighed, deep and long-suffering, eyes tracking all over the idiot. Really, he picked this one? 

Steve Harrington must not have been a ‘morning after’ type of hookup, the ladies of Hawkins would have definitely spread this news. Because there ain’t nothing sexy or pretty or attractive about the way King Steve sleeps. 

He sleeps like he’s been knocked out. Arms thrown wherever they landed. Flat on his stomach, with one knobby knee raised in Billy’s direction. Billy suspects that’s the culprit as to how he got pushed to the far side of the bed, given that at least a third of the bed on the other side of Harrington is completely open. Steve’s shirt is both stretched awkwardly and bunched up, exposing most of his side. His mouth had fallen open, breathing deep and choppy like a radiator. His facial features all scrunched up unnaturally with the force of his head pressed into the mattress. Like Steve didn't have the good sense to get comfortable first, before deciding to pass the fuck out in the middle of Billy’s goddamn bed. He's even doing this wheezing/snoring thing that's particularly gross. 

Billy leans forward anyway, presses his lips to the crown of Steve's head.

Harrington stirs, makes this ridiculous snuffling noise, and attempts to sit up. Billy stops him gently, pushing him more comfortably onto his side. 

"Gotta get the girls to school." Billy whispers, pushing himself off the bed. 

He has to walk back across the room, unused to waking up on this side of the bed, to swipe his jeans off the floor. He tosses off the shirt he slept in, and sets about trying to find a clean shirt or at least a clean sweatshirt to thrown on. 

There’s an indecent wolf whistle that breaks the silence of the small room as Billy turns towards his closet. 

Looking back towards the bed was his first mistake. 

Because there’s Steve, propped up on his elbows, sleep mussed yet still pulling off a fucking smug as shit look. Steve’s gaze is lazy, slow and lingering, as it tracks up and down, from Billy’s face to his chest, down over his torso, over his arms, and back up again. 

And. 

Really.

It would be enough that Steve Harrington is openly checking him out, like that would totally be enough to fuck him up for at least the rest of the week. But not only is Steve Harrington openly checking him out, he’s doing so from _Billy’s bed_. With Billy’s covers pushed down around his hips. In his fucking bedroom. Where he just woke up. And Steve’s just happily smiling that stupid dopey and sleepy smile of his, like he’s enjoying this. 

Billy’s second mistake was taking a step closer. 

Because Steve picks up on it immediately, his dopey smile turning into something more of a smirk as he scrambles to push himself up. He gets his knees underneath him and crawls towards the end of the bed, where Billy is standing. 

It’s a shock, really. Watching the way Steve fucking stares at him. Openly. Between gym class and basketball and the fact that Billy’s allergic to buttons, Harrington’s seen him shirtless plenty of times. Billy knows he’s hot, but come on. 

Steve looks entranced. Raises himself up onto his knees. 

And Harrington looks up at him then, questioning. Billy has no fucking clue what he’s agreeing to but he’s nodding anyway. Which was probably his third mistake. 

His eyes close immediately when there’s a brush of fingertips right over his sternum. They track down, featherlight and gliding, over to his right side, above his hip bone. Billy’s certain he stops breathing. Because then there’s two hands, spread out over his chest. Tracing over collarbones, lightly, and shoulders, achingly gentle, and ridges of muscles. Fingers drifting, slowly and uninhibitedly over jagged, raised skin. Billy holds himself entirely still. He really needs to stop letting Harrington do this, it's really not something he can afford to taste and not _have_. 

There’s a rush of air, and Steve pulls back, sits back down on the mattress. 

“Okay. Wow.” Steve laughs, sort of, it’s a breathless type of thing. 

Billy hits him with a raised eyebrow, and Harrington flushes a deeper shade of pink. 

“I think I’m into those?” Steve admits, gesturing awkwardly up and down Billy’s torso. 

And. 

He. 

Billy takes a step forward. And shoves Harrington back into the mattress. Because _no. Nope. That’s not allowed_. 

“You’re fucking impossible.” Billy breathes out, head spinning. 

And Harrington’s _laughing_. Giggling, really. Bouncing back a little and messing up the covers further. 

Billy spins on heel, grabbing whatever shirt is closest to him off the floor in an attempt to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible. 

“Can’t help it!” Steve calls out, voice still cracking with sleep. “They’re badass. And like, really pretty, you know? Ha, just like you!” 

Billy slams the bedroom shut behind him. 

He barely makes it to his car without hyperventilating. 

*

Max takes one look at him as she crawls into the back seat next to El. 

“Oh god. What happened?” She grimaces, looking him over. Billy finds that entirely unfair and borderline offensive.

“Something happened?” El asks, concerned, sitting up a little. 

“Well, look at him.” Max gestures, her tone dripping with annoyance, “He looks like he’s about to pass out.” 

“Sick?” El leans forward, pokes his shoulder. 

“Nah, kid.” Billy smiles, already tired at its still just the morning, “I’m not sick. I’m fine.” 

“Then what’s going on?” Max demands. “What did you do?” 

“I didn’t do anything.” Billy grumbles out, backing out of the driveway and pulling onto the street. 

“Billy.” Max intones. And he looks up into the rearview to find both girls staring him down. 

“Friends don’t lie.” El shrugs, crossing her arms. And it’s a little funny, that kid has a few go to lines, but gets the most mileage out of them. 

Billy sighs, gripping the steering wheel, “I’m not lying. I didn’t do anything. Everything’s fine.” He states, attempting a neutral tone. Billy clocks the rearview mirror again, and both girls look entirely unconvinced. 

Quiet moments pass. 

“Oh my god.” Max breathes out. Then clamps a hand over her own mouth. Which sets El off into a rip of poorly contained giggles. Which in turn, causes Max to lean into her. Her shoulders clearly shaking in restrained laughter. 

“Fucking what?!” Billy snaps out, when it’s obvious neither one of them feels the need to clue him in. 

“Nothing!” El responds, biting her lip, smiling around it around bright and ridiculous. 

“Yeah, nothing.” Max agrees, sighing after calming herself down. Which lasts approximately three seconds before she’s smothering more giggles behind the back of her hand.


	22. cook.

Billy drops the girls off at school, each of them giving him these weird smiles and they hopped out, and he spends his drive back to the trailer considering the dire consequences if Max and El have finally managed the art of telepathic communication. The implications are dangerous. For him. He can only be negatively impacted by that, he's sure. And really, those two don't need to be anymore badass than they already are. It's practically unfair at this point. 

He stumbles back through the trailer door he never locks, and can't help but be plagued with future annoyance, now they'll _really_ never talk to him. 

Deciding omelets are the only suitable option at this hour of the morning, Billy heads straight for his kitchen to start the prep work. 

It's easy. Familiar. Making something with his hands always makes him feel better when he needs to clear his head. And he just got these peppers from the farmers market that are going to be so fucking perfect for this omelet he's -

"Holy fuck. You cook too?" 

Billy nearly jumps a mile. 

But like, he contains it. Sort of. He’s got an image to protect. He channels the shock into anger. 

"You're still here?!" He snaps out, attempting to catch his breath, certain that he's dying from a heart attack. 

Steve shrugs, posting up in the small entryway to the kitchen, "It's still raining." 

Billy looks out his kitchen window, over the deck. And rolls his eyes. It's drizzling. At best. Practically just misting. Like it couldn't be more clear how very much it isn't raining. 

"Oh, omelets!" Steve sings, obnoxiously sliding up close and peering over Billy's shoulder. "Mhm." Steve noisily breathes in, Billy elbows him out of the way. 

"Make me one?" Steve slumps against the counter dramatically, "Please?" 

It's the please that gets Billy looking over at him. Steve's giving him the big eyes, like there's a world that exists where Billy would say no. Even if he really wants to. Like right now. But Billy can't help but see past that immediately, he's too focused on Steve's face. 

He reaches out, for no apparent reason, and lightly traces his thumb under Steve's left eye. The deep, dark circles that are normally there, are paler. Lighter. Softer. Washed out after some solid sleep. It’s a good look. 

Steve freezes, his throat caught like he was going to say something. 

Billy snatches his hand back quickly, turns back to the stovetop. 

"Yeah, fine." Billy nods, tries to sound the most disinterested, "What do you want on yours?” 

“Oh, uh,” Steve shakes his head, clears his throat, “Yeah, whatever you have is fine. Just no,”

“Yeah I know,” Billy shoos him out of the way on his way to the fridge, “no onions, I got it.” Which is just bullshit, like, who doesn’t like onions? Psychopaths, probably. 

The kitchen is just a little bit bigger than a closet, so Billy gets frustrated pretty quickly when Harrington decides to just stand there. And like, Billy’s not about to fucking cook them breakfast with Harrington watching him like that. He banishes Steve to the other side of the counter, tells him to busy himself with the coffee maker that he only keeps because Harrington's the only one that uses it. 

Cooking is like, _his thing_. You know? He always cooks. For himself. Neil was 100% an asshole about Billy’s dietary preferences. And Susan either didn’t care or passively ignored them when she would cook for them. Which is fine. Billy’s gotten used to relying on himself. And after many fights and nights going to bed hungry because _‘you either eat what’s in front of you, or you don’t eat at all’_, Billy just stopped trying. Didn’t even mind when a place was no longer set for him at the table. Started buying his own groceries. Bought way too many cookbooks from the only decent bookstore in town. And would wait until they finished dinner to takeover the kitchen and make himself a meal. By a stroke of maybe the only bit of luck Billy’s ever experienced, Neil didn’t seem to give a fuck about it. 

But now? 

Now he has a kitchen. His own kitchen. And nothing’s stopping from using it anytime he wants to. He can buy whatever the fuck he wants, doesn’t have to worry about how much space it will take up in the fridge or in the cabinets or on the counter. And he can cook, whenever and whatever he damn well pleases. Just because he wants to. So, excuse him if he gets a little too into it. 

But the thing is, he always cooks. For himself. And only himself. 

There are few distant snapshots he can recall from the rare days when Susan and Neil were out. Memories of making Max the best fucking tomato soup he’s ever made when she was sick. Or the time he made himself roasted vegetables and potatoes and Max ended up eating more than half of the pan. Before turning and asking him if he made dessert too. But those moments were few are far between. It’s almost always just him. 

That’s how he ends up fucking up the fold on Harrington’s omelet, usually they’re _perfect_, swearing under his breath. He plates it and unceremoniously slides it over to where Harrington’s sitting on a stool at the counter, next to the coffee maker. Turns back to the stovetop to start his own. 

He hears Harrington take a bite. 

“Um. Quick question.” Harrington states. And Billy looks at him, his fork raised in the air, pointing at him, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What?” 

Steve’s eyes bug out a little like he’s mad, gesturing like an idiot at the plate in front of him, “You can cook like this and what, never thought to mention it?” 

Billy rolls his eyes. “It's a basic omelet, Harrington. Relax. Even you can't fuck it up.” 

Steve continues to look at him, eyes narrowed. 

Billy sighed, feeling the irritation itch under his skin. This is why he probably should have kicked Harrington out earlier. “It's nothing special.” Billy mumbles out, putting a little bit too much force into chopping up the rest of his peppers. 

“Wrong.” Harrington announces, loudly. “This is fucking fantastic.” And continues to eat like a wild animal. Billy wants to tell him he can make more if he wants but that’s not - 

“And also, fuck you.” Steve says with his mouth full, “You know how long it's been since I've had something home cooked?” 

Billy recoils, thinks of the maybe chicken. “Dinner at the Byers?” 

“Oh god.” Steve winces, pulls a full body shiver, “Don't remind me. That doesn't count. This is so much better.” 

“Well,” Billy laughs, and thinks of all the other disgusting things he’s seen Steve consume, not the best judge of culinary skills, “you know when you exist off of cheeseburgers and pizza, I'm sure anything tastes better.” 

“Again, fuck you. Let me just enjoy this.” Steve pauses to make a grab for his coffee, hiding most of his face, “You know my parents didn’t, we don't, well, no one cooks at my house. So it's just nice, alright? Fuck off.” 

And Billy wants to tell him that he will fight both of his parents. Wants to tell him that this isn’t even the best thing he can make. Not even in the top ten. Wants to tell him to stop making such a big deal about this because the spatula in his hand is still shaking and he’s not fucking up his own omelet. What comes out instead is a flat and diffident -

“Whatever, Harrington.” 

“Don’t _whatever_ me.” Steve mumbles into his plate, between bites, “And you’re cooking for me from now on, Hargrove. Now that I know your secret.”

And. 

Steve says it casually, off-hand. Almost provoking. 

But it’s like Harrington opened a door and Billy can’t stop the embarrassing wave of _something_ that engulfs him. Just by thinking about it. Jesus. It's embarrassing how much he fucking wants that. 

And. He needs to shut down that line of thinking right fucking now. Because no. Holy fuck, no. He can’t, he can’t go down that road. So Billy just stares at his bubbling pan, white knuckling the spatula and giving himself a strong talking to. He needs to get his shit together. 

Steve picks up on his silence. 

“I mean like, as a joke.” Harrington intones, and Billy closes his eyes. Wishing Steve would just let this go. But the dumbass continues, “You don't have to, obviously. I wasn't trying to -”

“It's fine, Harrington. Shut up.” Billy bites out. 

“Oh.” Steve’s voice goes all weird, high and breaking with realization. Billy tenses. Immediately sensing he’s not going to like where this is going. Unfortunately, he makes the mistake of looking over at Steve. 

His eyes meet Steve’s and it’s like Steve zeroes in. Dials into some frequency Billy didn’t even know he was emitting. And Steve’s grin goes downright wolfish. 

“Oh shit,” Harrington rumbles out low and dangerous, leaning over the counter, “You would like that? Wouldn’t you?”

Billy doesn’t even get a chance to deny it or snap back something vicious or do anything but stand there like an idiot because Steve smells blood and he is on him.

“You would!” Steve nearly shouts, amused as hell and triumphant in his discovery. “Oh my god, you fucking would!” Steve laughs and Billy considers that if the Upside Down decided that now was the time it was going to open up and swallow him back down, he would be totally fucking fine with it. “Dude, like, you can cook for me anytime you want.” Steve's voice pitches all low and soft, continues babbling, “You know, I have like, a giant fucking kitchen, right? I mean, not that I don't love this place, because you know I do, but if you ever want to-” 

“Jesus Christ.” Billy curses, needing to cut him off. “Shut the fuck up and eat your eggs.” He orders, but Steve just continues to smile back at him, all goofy and gleeful and annoying. Billy glares back at him because the bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. 

_I think I’m into those?_

_I’ve never been less afraid of anything._

_You wanna fight, Hargrove?_

Harrington’s dismantling him like a bomb. Ripping off panels and cutting wires with either the relentless and remorseless task of blowing them both up as quickly as possible or with calculated, steady surgeon hands and effortless efficiency. Both possibilities are equally distressing. 

But Steve’s reaching across the counter, grabbing him by the forearm. And he might as well be a bundle of dynamite. And Steve might as well be a detonator. 

“Billy. Anytime. Seriously.” Harrington’s imploring, eyes searching, “Like maybe tomorrow night?”

And Billy spins. Away. Takes himself and his omelet out to the deck. 

“Or you know, whenever! Whenever’s fine too.” Steve calls, still laughing. Billy hears him shuffle off the stool, probably grabbing his coffee, and following after him.


	23. matches.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopper POV

Hopper decided he was going to start charging an hourly rate if Harrington was just going to continue to use him as free therapy. 

Because that’s all the kid would do. He’d storm into his office down at the station, all steaming mad about some inane bullshit Hopper couldn’t even guess it, and just ramble on and on until he eventually wore himself out. Or got hungry. 

And, _really _. Hopper doesn’t completely mind it. You know, he wishes the kid had a little more respect for the office. He does, in fact, have a job to do and can’t drop what he’s doing every time Steve loses his shit. But more than that, he’s placated that Steve is actually talking to someone. Those early days after the Starcourt business were _rough_. 

So, yeah. He’s good with this. Sort of. Most of the time it seems like the kid just needs some type of sounding board. And Hopper doesn’t really have to (or get the chance to) comment or offer advice. He nods when he should, makes minimal sounds of agreement or outrage when appropriate, and just tries to get Steve to _sit the hell down, kid, you’re wearing a tread into the carpet._

What he’s not good with? 

“He never says anything. Nothing!” Steve throws his arms up, shifting in the office chair with the force of it. “You remember? Remember, before? He wouldn’t shut the fuck up, right?” He questions, leaning towards Hopper with all that poorly restrained energy. “Right? Like you couldn’t pay him to shut up, you know. And now? Now, he’s just, what? Deciding not to respond? Like, how is that fair?” 

Hopper tries to very subtly roll his eyes on his next inhale from his cigarette. He needs to start keeping a flask in his desk specifically for Harrington's daily Billy Hargrove ranting. 

“I talk to him, you know? I talk and I fucking talk and that’s just it. That’s it. I talk. And I’m, well. It’s just, like, that’s fine. And it, you know. Helps. Or whatever. Like Joyce said. But Joyce also said to be patient, right? And I _can’t _.” 

Hopper nods, willing this to be over, and then catches up to what Harrington is saying. And yes, _Joyce! _ That’s his way out. He can absolutely push this one on her. She’s better at … this. And he knows she has the afternoon off. He'll have to make it up to her somehow.

Hopper stands up, grabs for his jacket. 

“-so frustrating. Oh. You need to leave?” 

“We’re both leaving.” 

“We are?” 

“Yup.” 

“Why?” 

And Hopper sighs. Tries not to feel too guilty staring back at Steve. But listen, he's done a lot, you know? He's weathered a lot of the Steve storms. Pulled him off the streets when he was stumbling drunk. Handled some horrific nightmares. Picked him up after someone reported a dead body but it was really just this dumbass that fell asleep in the park. He's the first one up to bat if Steve's about to pull some crazy shit, but this stuff? Not his forte. And probably not what Steve really needs. 

So he's stubbing out his cigarette and slamming the rest of his coffee before he changes his mind. 

“You’re going to go talk to Joyce about this. And I’m going to go be anywhere else.”

*

(A/N: For clarity - Hopper drops Steve off with Joyce. Returns to work. And is just now driving back to Joyce’s after a long day.)

*

Hopper pulls up the Byers house and rolls his eyes to the goddamn sky. He even leans into his steering wheel for a moment, sighing deeply and counting backwards from ten, so he doesn’t start shouting. 

Yanking the keys out of the ignition, he considers that maybe he had a hand in creating this beast. 

Because there’s Hargrove, parked further down the driveway. Sitting all broodily and gloomy in that car of his. Smoking out of the window he’s got an arm propped against, his gaze continually shifting down into the side mirror. _Jesus _, Hop swears, _that kid sure does smoke like a damn chimney _. 

And then there’s Harrington. Sitting on the front steps of Joyce’s house, with his back turned to the side, looking like the kid someone forgot to pick up from daycare. 

He knew that Hargrove would be here. Or rather, he knew that Hargrove would be here later. Max and El and the rest of their annoying little friends had some kind of movie night planned at Joyce’s house tonight. Hop had been stuck with the late shift and asked Billy to drive the girls home after. Reflectively, he probably could have asked Joyce or some other parent to drop El back at the cabin, but he didn’t. He just assumed one of the girls would call up Hargrove when they were ready to be picked up. He didn’t think that the kid would just show up and fucking wait around in his car until they were done. 

And Steve. He dropped off Steve _hours _ ago to talk with Joyce. Hopper assumed Joyce would drive Steve back to his car down at the station when they finished talking. Or that Steve would walk to go pick it up. It’s really not that far. 

Which brings him to this point. 

Hopper knew Joyce would have her hands full with all of the kids tonight. And he was able to pawn off the rest of his late shift on one of their new deputies so that he could get the rest of the night free to help out. 

But there was Steve, sitting petulantly on the steps. No doubt self-isolating as Joyce would be horrified to find him out here when everyone else was inside, watching the movie. And Hargrove. Parked as far away from the house as possible. Waiting around because he thought he had to. He watches Hargrove glance into his side mirror one more time and explodes. Throws the door open of his truck and stalks outside. 

_Does he have to do everything around here? _

“Hey!” Hopper shouts across the driveway, his Chief voice low and booming, gathering attention quickly. “You and you,” he angrily points at each one of the idiots, “let’s go.” He gestures behind him, “Get in the truck. Now.” 

When neither of them move or do anything but stare openly back at him, Hopper fumes. 

“Get your dumbasses in the truck right now or so help me god I will,” 

And that gets them moving. 

Albeit, slowly. 

Hargrove practically slams the Camaro shut behind him, takes his time stubbing out his cigarette with his boot before moseying over. Steve, on the other hand, nearly trips himself scrambling down the steps and Hopper has to do the deep breath/count backwards from ten thing he’s working on because these kids are just so goddamn baffling. 

Especially when they both act surprised like they’re just now noticing the other one is here, not like they haven’t been staring at each other since probably before Hopper even arrived. 

At least they both, for once, without any arguments, get into the goddamn truck. 

Hopper follows and starts the engine, throwing it quickly in reverse and tearing out of the driveway before one of them tries to throw themselves out or some other stupid shit. 

“Listen.” Hopper starts, looking up in the rearview, “Take the night off, alright? The kids are fine, Joyce and I can handle them. Go enjoy your own Friday night.” 

Both boys stare back at him like they’re unfamiliar with the concept.

Hopper almost laughs. 

These are the two kids the rest of the town is so worried about? The ones he fields the most complaints about? The very same ones, sitting in the back of his truck, looking all shades of upset that they’re being told to have fun? 

Impossible. 

Hopper sighs, convinced everyone in this town is dumb as shit if they think Hargrove and Harrington actually pose real threats and are anything but two dumb kids who just need some space to breathe and heal. 

It’s a short drive. The Byers’ house isn’t too far from the central roads, and Hopper’s pulling over right at the beginning of Main Street in no time. 

He more or less has to kick them out of his truck. 

“Alright, out. Get out. Let’s go. Come on. Time to rejoin the world of the living.” Hopper’s clapping his hands together, waiting for each of them to stumble out of his truck and onto the sidewalk. He ignores their suspicious glances. 

“Right, so.” Hopper looks them up and down from the passenger window and sort of feels like Hawkins is made of kindling and he just handed two arsonists a couple of matches. Whatever, you know? Hawkins has withstood many supernatural, monstrous, and dangerous things. He thinks it can handle one night of Harrington and Hargrove. 

“Go be teenagers, or whatever.” Hopper waves them off, “Wipe those sorry looks off your faces, _Jesus _. Go tear up the town a little, huh? I hear the Chief’s taking the night off. So let’s not end the night the way it started, alright?” 

Hopper doesn’t wait to hear their protests. 

He hightails it out of there - there’s a movie night he’s missing.


	24. nerd.

“So, uh, what do you want to do?” Steve asks, shoving his hands into his pockets. Rocking back on his heels. 

Billy shrugs. A little annoyed. 

Why didn’t Hopper just let him drive back to the trailer? Why throw him in the back of the truck with Harrington and kick them out on Main Street? Why not just let both of them go home? It’s already 8pm. Most of the good shops on Main will be closing soon, anyway. And what, like he’s just supposed to walk in to some restaurant and eat with Harrington? That’s _not_ happening. 

Well, at least there’s one place that’s opened. Which gives him a great idea. 

Billy starts walking down the street, he hears Steve follow behind him. The silence hangs between them for long minutes. 

“Look,” Steve sighs, turning towards him, “if you don’t wanna hang out, or whatever, that’s fine. I can just take off,”

And Billy stops walking, watches Steve catch himself a full second later and spin back to face him. Billy shakes his head a little, Steve looking all flustered and nervous is just too much right now. Billy jerks his head in the direction of the storefront he stopped in front of. 

“You coming in or what?” 

Steve smiles, small and real. And Billy has to turn away. Walk up the few steps of the familiar shop. 

The little bell on the door chimes his entrance, happy and sweet, just like every other time he’s been here. Billy steps into the shop, smiling to himself when it chimes again, Harrington right behind him. 

The bookstore is the only actually cool place in all of Hawkins. He’ll fight anyone that disagrees. 

It’s small and second hand, the bookcases are set up more like a maze and haphazard stacks of books pile up on the floor, threatening to trip up unsuspecting patrons. 

He considers himself an intelligent person, but even he can’t even guess at how the books are arranged. He’s certain there’s no logical pattern. Which is part of the charm. You can really get lost, throw away hours, wandering the whole store, in search of one book. There’s a record player in the back corner, too. And usually the staff doesn’t mind when Billy fucks around with it. They got good taste in music, anyway. Like right now, a cut off an early Stones album plays soft and slow over the crackly speakers. 

Billy makes his way to the back stacks, pulling up the map he’s plotted out in his head. He’s spent a ridiculous amount of time here, he doesn’t know the overall layout but he can pick out some common patterns. And he’s pretty sure the book he’s looking for should be around the back wall. 

They cut in front of the register and Billy gives the cashier a nod as they go past. 

“Oh, hey Billy.” She looks up from her book, smiling a little when he sends her a dumb little wave. 

Billy cuts between a couple of stacks, taking a sharp right quickly followed by a sharp left, and suddenly Steve is right at his elbow.

“Oh my god, she knows you?” Steve whisper-giggles, eyes lighting up, “On a first name basis, huh? I knew you were a fucking nerd.” Steve emphasizes his point by jabbing him in the shoulder. 

“Watch it, Harrington.” Billy bats his hand away, irritated in the face of Steve’s outright glee. 

He should probably tell him that this is one of the few places in Hawkins that’s actually opened late. And one of Billy’s go-to places to hideaway after a Neil fight, because of it. 

He should probably tell him he knows every staff member, and every staff member knows him. Should probably tell him there’s a first-aid kit under the register because of him. He should probably tell him that he’s slept in every one of these old couches and beaten up comfy chairs. And that if he’s not at the laundromat, Hopper can always find him here. 

He should probably tell him all of these things. And he will. But right now he likes being just a nerd in Steve's mind. 

Billy turns and starts tearing through the bookshelves. The only way to do this is systematically, one at a time. So he dials in, laser-focused on speed reading the titles, stomping around from shelf to shelf. 

“You know, I’ve never been in here before.” Steve offers, flipping through a random book and shelving it. Laying it flat on top of the vertical books like a goddamn maniac who wants to die. 

Billy snatches it back. Returning it to its rightful place. 

“How's that possible?” Billy asks, “You’re from here. Thought you’d been everywhere in Hawkins.” 

Steve just shrugs, wisely taking a step away from the books. “Not a big reader.”

“Shocking.” Billy intones, slow and sticky. “I’m shocked, truly. This is shocking news.” 

“Don’t be an asshole.” Steve grumbles, shoves lightly at his shoulder, the tips of ear tinged pink. 

Billy turns back to the shelf. He’s made it through some encyclopedias and Guinness World Record books, so he feels like he’s on the right track. Although a Yeats book of poetry slightly throws him off. But then there’s thesauri and Billy has to think he’s stumbled onto a little reference section and - 

“Ah, there’s the little fucker.” Billy stoops low, liberating the book from the bottom shelf. He stands up slowly, already flipping through it and yeah, this is the one. He suddenly feels a little uncertain but chalks that up to Harrington basically breathing down his neck.

“You ready?” He asks, nodding in the direction of the front register. 

“Yeah, sure, yeah.” Harrington motions in front of him, “Lead the way.” 

You see, the key is to take the opposite path to get back to the register. Trying to take the same path you took leads you to misery and regret. So Billy takes a wide right, snaking back through the shelves. Harrington is still, nonsensically, at his elbow. 

“The cashier.” Steve starts, whispers, “She’s cute.”

Billy breathes out a laugh, “Yeah, she is.” 

Steve pauses. Then. 

“What’s her name.” 

“Why don’t you ask her if you’re interested?” Billy quips, directing it over his shoulder. Watching Steve’s face pull up into a complicated twist. 

“I’m not interested.” Steve rushes out. 

“You should be.” He shrugs, drops his voice, “Sofia’s cool.” 

“Sofia? Wow.” Steve twitches, runs a hand through his hair, “That’s high praise coming from you.” 

Billy shrugs again, continuing on through the stacks. 

“So.” Steve leans in, “Do you like, have a crush on her or something?” 

And Billy laughs. Properly. Definitely breaking the sanctuary of the quiet space but not caring. Because Harrington. Harrington who stalks his deck in the early hours of the morning. Harrington who crawled into his arms after a nightmare. Harrington who recently woke up in Billy’s goddamn bed - is asking if he has a crush on someone. And fuck, all Billy can think is that that Wheeler chick did a number on him. He should really get around to doing something about that. 

“Yeah, man.” Billy nods seriously, breathing through his laughter, “I totally have a crush on her, because I’m thirteen again and like, that's still a thing.” And Billy stops, which means Harrington stops, and Billy spins to look at him. Look at those stupid fucking eyes that are incapable of hiding anything. Almost feels bad. Billy smiles, leaning in closer, “But you wanna know a secret? 

Steve just narrows his eyes, nods.

Billy makes his face go all wistful, "She’s not into me.” 

“What.” Steve deadpans, crossing his arms over his chest, “How’s that possible?” 

“I know.” Billy grins, taking the last turn to get to the register, “I was shocked too.”

“Billy.” Sofia greets him as he walks up, saying his name around a smile.

“Hey, darling.” Billy drawls, propping his elbows on the small desk. Doing his signature side smile and fluttery eyes that gets everyone. 

Sofia rolls her eyes _sky high_, admonishing. 

She grabs for his book and Billy gives it willingly. “So what’s new with you?”

“Oh nothing, you know. Same old same old.” Billy leans against the desk, gesturing over his shoulder at Harrington who’s just standing awkwardly a few feet away, he smiles, “Was just telling Steve here about my undying love for you.” 

“You're so dramatic.” Sofia scoffs. Viciously sticking a store bookmark randomly into Billy’s book. Snapping it shut. 

“I can't help it.” Billy pleads, _dramatically_, grabs the edge of the desk, “You won't even give me a chance.” 

“It's cute that you think you even had a chance.” She snaps out, one perfectly manicured eyebrow raised in his direction, devastating. Billy hears Steve’s punch of poorly constrained laughter.

“Fine.” Billy sighs, also dramatically, gathering himself, “Just give me my book, then.”

Sofia smiles down at him patronizingly, aware of her powers of annihilation, and scans his book. “You have your membership card?” 

“Hell fucking yes I do.” And Billy’s diving for his wallet, producing the well love paper card from deep within its folds. She hole punches it, and hands it and the book back to him. 

“An almanac? Seriously, Hargrove, you have the weirdest fucking taste in books.” 

“Gotta keep them guessing.” Billy winks, tucking the book under one arm. 

“Whatever.” Sofia laughs, nods at Steve, “Anything for your friend?”

“Who? Harrington? Oh no, he doesn't read.” Billy dismisses, and Steve’s sending him a withering look. 

“Oh, wait, you're Harrington?” Sofia questions, both of them turning back towards her. 

“Uh, yes?” Steve sounds surprised, like there could possibly be anyone left in Hawkins that doesn’t know who he is. 

Sofia’s who face lights up, “You're Robin’s friend?” 

And Billy gets to watch Steve smile. Warm and humbled. 

“Yes.” Steve nods like an excited golden retriever. Sofia laughs. 

“Do you know if she's seeing anyone?”

For some ridiculous reason, Steve flushes. A light pink smattering high across his cheekbones. Like somehow he’s the one in the hot seat. It’s so awkward and perfectly Harrington that Billy can’t hold back a snicker. 

“No.” Steve coughs, “No, uh, I don't think so.”

“Cool.” Sofia nods, an amused smile plays across her lips. And Billy sympathizes. “Thanks.” 

“Tear it up, Sof!” Billy drops his voice low, bellowing, “Get some, am I right?” He leans in, going for a fist bump. 

She pushes him away, laughing. Ignoring the fist bump, and shoving him in the direction of the store’s back entrance, shaking her head. “Out. Out of my store. You’re so fucking obnoxious.”


	25. sunrise.

The back entrance of the bookstore leads out to a small alley, separating the bookstore’s building from the next. The alley dumps out to a parking lot behind the buildings, but just beyond the parking lot, there’s a small little grassy area. Complete with big trees and exactly one bench. Billy starts making his way over to the bench, knowing he’ll absolutely need a cigarette after this. 

He shifts the book in his hand. Tells himself he can’t back out now because he’s already bought the stupid thing. And turns, softly hitting Harrington in the chest with it. 

“It's for you.” 

“What?” Harrington scrambles, trying to catch the book and side-eye Billy at the same time. He almost trips. 

“Just take it.” Billy stuffs his hands in his pockets. 

“You bought me a book?” Steve asks cautiously, holding onto it like he’s never seen a fucking book before in his life, “Why?”

“Don't worry, you don't have to do any heavy reading.” Billy teases, rolling his eyes. “Here, look.” He reaches over to tap the cover, just in case Steve hasn’t, you know, actually read the title yet. “It's a farmer’s almanac.”

And Steve. Just. Flips it over in his hands. Stares at it. 

“Um. Okay?”

“Fuck, give it here.” Billy sighs, snatching it back. Really hoping he wouldn’t have to actually explain it and Steve would just know and they could just carry on without it becoming like a _thing_, but, here they are. 

“I guess I'll show ya,” And Billy thumbs towards the back of it, rifling to find the calendar. “Most of it’s already bullshit because it’s put out for the year and it's already October, so you can really only use it for like two full months.” Billy finds the page starting with October, scans until he finds today’s date. Shoves it under Steve’s face. 

And Steve, for his part, does look like he’s actually trying to understand. But even Billy will admit that if you’re unfamiliar with these kind of charts, they can be overwhelming to read. 

“Here, look.” Billy starts, softer this time. Stepping closer. He moves his finger over the page, tracking today’s date, and slowly sliding over to the column he thinks Steve will find useful. Hopefully. He taps his finger against it, waits for Steve’s gaze to shift to where he’s indicating.

“It lists the time of the sunrise for each day. Every day.” Billy demonstrates, lingering over the month of October. And flipping the page so Steve can see November, too. “From now until December 31st. See? Look, every single day. The sun has a specific time it’s gonna rise. Well, it doesn’t actually rise. But that’s a different conversation.” Billy shakes his head, tries to stem his rambling, “Anyway. It’s going to happen. The sunrise. They’ve already figured all that shit out, man. Gave it an exact time. So you don’t have to.”

And Billy stops, takes a deep breath. Looks up at Steve. But Steve’s face is still twisted in confusion. Eyes scanning the page, flipping back to October. Billy’s not great at this and maybe this was a terrible idea but he’s already dug this hole so he tries not to sigh, stares up at the sky for a moment. 

“But like,” Billy breathes out, “if you still wanted to double check. Or whatever.” Billy flaps a hand in the general direction of the woods, hoping the gesture signifies Steve’s early morning predilection, “At least you now have a closer timeframe to work with it?” 

He still doesn’t really know what Steve’s been through. No one does. All he knows is what Steve’s shared with him. And sure, the sunrise thing is weird. But it makes sense. And Billy’s been thinking that if Steve had something a little more concrete, like the actual time of the sunrise, he can start with that. Maybe work his way to trusting it after testing it out. Or at least have a set time to prepare for if he keeps insisting upon being outside for the sunrise. That has to be better than lurking around for hours, not knowing. 

But right now, Steve’s not looking at him. He’s still staring at the page, holding himself very still. And Billy’s fucked. Because the last thing he wanted to do was trigger something or cause Steve to panic and wow, this was a spectacularly stupid idea. He basically just took Steve’s compulsion, bottled it up, and threw it back in his face. It’s none of his business, anyway. He shouldn’t have brought it up. 

Billy takes a step back. Kicks at some gravel. 

“I don’t know,” Billy starts, “I just thought,” 

And the next thing he knows he’s being hugged within an inch of his life. Steve traps both of his arms, pinning them to his side. So Billy can’t even properly hug back, he just has to stand there. With Harrington pressed against him. His chin hooked over Billy’s shoulder, arms tight around his back, the corner of the book digging awkwardly into his side. 

Billy twitches an arm. 

And Harrington mistakes that as a sign, because he’s pulling back. Breathing noisily. And Billy clocks the shining quality of Steve’s eyes as he’s stepping away, notices the red rims. And Billy wants to tell him he was only trying to free his arms, not pull away, but Steve half-turns away from him and Billy gives him the space. Tries to not too obviously watch Harrington collect himself. 

“Billy.” 

And he looks over at Harrington, who’s staring back at him way too intensely, Billy feels it under the collar of his jacket. And he doesn’t want to hear it. Really, he doesn’t. He actually can’t handle any type of fucking gesture so he’s waving a dismissive hand preemptively, shaking his head. 

“It’s nothing. Just a stupid book. I should have thought of it sooner.” 

“It's not nothing.” Steve sniffs, pressing the book to his chest. And Billy feels it like Steve pressed it against his own. _Jesus_. 

“My car,” Steve starts, pointing behind him, “my car is still at the police station. Just two blocks down. Cool if I walk this down to my car before I lose it?”

“Do whatever you want, Harrington.” Billy shrugs, trying to make it look more relaxed than he feels. 

So Steve turns to head back down the alley and stops, looks over his shoulder. 

“But like you'll still be here?” Steve asks, actually asks. And actually looks like he’s unsure of the answer. And for fuck’s sake, Billy breathes out frustration. Digs in his back pocket for his pack of smokes and zippo. 

He plants himself solidly down on the bench, lighting up. Hoping Steve’s getting the idea that he’s not going anywhere. 

Steve rolls his watery eyes, smiles, and heads to his car.


	26. fight.

“Well, well, well.” 

Billy looks up from his cigarette, watches Tommy and his band of idiots approach his bench. 

They’re coming from the alleyway between the bookstore and the next building. Billy grimaces, already annoyed. It’s been a nice night, right? He’s in no mood to deal with this asshole. He stands, waits. 

Tommy pulls to a stop right in front of him. All nasty smile, his stupid face twisted up with it. 

“If it isn’t the town’s resident monster.” Tommy laughs, the rest of his crew of stooges laugh behind him. 

Billy rolls his eyes, already bored, “Fuck off, Tommy.” 

But Tommy just takes a step closer, ‘cause he’s an idiot, right to Billy’s left side, raising his voice so everyone nearby can hear him. “Did the Chief finally let you out of your cage today? Huh?” He calls out, garnering some raucous laughter.

Tommy places a firm hand on Billy’s shoulder, leans in conspiratorially, “You may have them fooled, buddy. But not me. I know you, Hargrove.”

“You don’t know shit.” Billy easily shrugs him off. He steps up, pulling himself to his full height and reveling in it. His shoulders are back, jaw snapping into place, like his whole body is responding fluidly. He can see it in Tommy’s eyes, the just barely there control that’s about to break. The glimmer of fear. It’s the look of a man itching for a fight. 

Billy breathes it in, letting his eyes close and savoring it for a second. Fuck, he’s missed this. 

He smiles, all teeth, and sets his voice low and syrupy sweet. 

“Now,” Billy inclines his head, smirks, “I’m gonna ask you real nicely to get out of my face.” 

“Or what?” Tommy shoots back, arms out widely, “Gonna release the beast on me? Destroy the whole fucking town again? Kill more people? What?” Tommy laughs darkly, shoving him in the chest but Billy doesn’t move. 

He catches one of Tommy’s wrists, grips it.

“Fuck. Off.” Billy warns, and yanks him close only to throw off his balance before stepping into it and throwing Tommy back by the forearm. 

Tommy stumbles back a few steps and Billy can feel his smile turn feral. He advances, pushing Tommy back into the alley. 

“Nobody wants you here!” Tommy shouts, all riled up and casting about. “You get that, right?” He breathes out, glaring back at him. And Billy reluctantly has to give the guy some credit because Tommy just gets right back in his face again, “I lost people. We all lost people.” He’s yelling, shaking with rage, “Because of _you_.” 

And Tommy’s leaning in, breathing heavy and fast, eyes flashing with fury. 

Billy’s been through this before. In the early days. With himself. And he’s much scarier than Tommy. So his voice is calm and steady, his gaze unwavering as he considers it. 

“Don’t fucking put that on me.” 

And there’s a moment. Where Tommy just stares back at him. And Billy thinks that it might be over. Sometimes you just need to yell at somebody about it, Billy understands that better than most. But Tommy’s still holding himself tight, all wound up and frenzied and shakes his head. Shakes his head like he knows. Like he knows it’s not Billy’s fault but wants to take it out on him anyway. 

Billy recognizes it and shrugs. Guess that’s just the way this is going to go down, then. At least it will be an easy one, Tommy’s never been much of a fighter. Billy pulls off his dark denim jacket, it’s his best one and he’s not having it stained with blood. 

Tommy clocks it and explodes, losing that last bit of control, “I don’t care! Alright? I don’t even fucking care anymore, man! It doesn’t matter. You deserve to rot in hell, Hargrove! I swear to god I’ll,”

And Tommy’s lunging forward, grabbing Billy but the front of his shirt. But Billy’s quick with the defense, plants his feet, uses Tommy’s momentum to spin him further into the alley. Tommy slips but springs back in action, throwing a ridiculous punch Billy easily ducks out of. 

“Hey!” 

Both boys freeze for a second as someone steps into the alley. 

“What the hell is going on here?!” 

And Billy’s got his back towards him but he would recognize that voice anywhere. He groans, talk about terrible timing. He knew Harrington was probably on his way back but had hoped to handle all of this before he returned. 

Tommy shifts, giving Harrington the briefest of glances before directing his glare back at Billy. 

“Walk away, Harrington. He’s mine.” Tommy waves him off, and waits for Steve to leave. 

“Yeah, that’s not happening.” Billy hears Steve say, hears him walking towards them, _the idiot_. Billy really wishes Steve would just keep his goddamn mouth shut and go be anywhere else then right here.

Steve comes to a stop right next to him, “And he’s not.”

“What?” Tommy’s eyes bug out, now shifting his focus to Steve, “Are you really taking his side right now? You know what he did?”

“I know he was under a serious compulsion.” Steve steps forward, and Billy fights the urge to pull him back, “I know he fought off a fucking monster. And stopped it. I know he willingly sacrificed himself to save those around him. And I know he survived. So yeah, I know what he did.”

And. 

Billy takes his eyes off Tommy for a second only to spare Harrington a brief side eye. _Where the hell did that come from?_

“That’s not what I fucking meant and you know it.” Tommy spits out, stepping towards Harrington. And Billy’s not having any of that shit. He pushes Tommy back, away. Steps in front of Steve. 

“Just leave, Harrington. I got this.” He says to Steve, while still glaring down at Tommy. 

“Can’t.” Steve grabs for his bicep, tugs it gently, “Not gonna let you do this.” 

Billy whips his head around, “Let me?”

“Yeah.” Steve meets his gaze, holds it steady. “Let you.” 

“Oh my god,” Tommy breathes out, “is this what I think it is?”

Billy snaps back towards him, not liking the floored quality in Tommy’s tone.

“What?”

Tommy laughs, loudly and derisively, taking a step back. “I mean, people talk but I didn’t believe it. Until now. This is _priceless_.” Tommy shoots them a wide smile, still laughing around it, gesturing between them,“You two?” He sings, nearly wheezing in his amusement, holding onto his stomach, “You’re really slumming it huh, Harrington?” 

Billy’s blood runs cold. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Steve is pushing forward and Billy can’t do anything but watch Tommy saunter towards him. Watches Tommy press up close to Steve. 

“You finally found someone that will fuck you?” Tommy rumbles out, right against Steve’s ear. His hand grazing down the front of Steve’s shirt. “Got tired of begging me, Stevie?” He snickers, twisting up and hitting Steve with the most ridiculous wink. 

“_What_.” Steve pushes him back, but his eyes are wide and stunned, “I never, I’ve never said,”

“Oh, you did.” Tommy grins wickedly, “Many times. You’d get drunk and cry about Wheeler. Then you’d beg me for it.” He shrugs, a smug pull on his lips, “It was kind of pathetic.”

“What, how, I was drunk,” Steve rambles, looking speechless and horrified, “I didn’t, I didn’t know what I was saying, I,”

“Oh?” Tommy steps closer, “Want me to remind you?”

Billy watches Steve turn to face him. His eyes searching, wild. He looks scared and lost and _hurt_ and Billy’s, again, not having any of that shit. 

His anger slots into place, now having a clear and direct focus. There’s a buzzing under his skin, spreading through his chest, flooding white hot and insistent through his veins. And honestly, it’s like the last piece of the puzzle falling into place. He’s had to ignore this part of himself for so long, it feels fucking _great_ to shake the dust off. 

Sure, he’s about to willingly break one of Hopper’s four rules. But, you know. This is Steve. 

“Back the fuck off, Tommy.” Billy steps right up to him, levels him with a glare. Leans into it. Just daring.

“I get it, Hargrove.” Tommy laughs, putting his hands up. He’s taking a step back and motioning towards Steve, “He does make the sweetest sounds, doesn’t he?”

And Billy’s on him, grabbing a fistful of sweatshirt and ripping him forward, placing his other arm tight against his throat. He can hear Tommy struggling, can hear a ghost of laugh still, and Tommy’s right there, barely managing to get out, “And that mouth, right? For fuck’s sake,”

Billy lays him the fuck out. 

Delivering what has to be the _sweetest_ right hook in all of human history. It’s right on the money. There’s even a satisfying _crunch_ to it as Billy’s certain he broke a nose. And Tommy drops to the ground like someone cut his strings. 

Then. 

Mania.

“What the fuck Billy! Hop said no fighting!” Steve yelled, although he sounded distant.

And up until that very point, Billy had more or less forgotten about Tommy’s little gang of idiots. That is, of course, until two of them had Billy by both arms. A third attempting to fight him. 

Billy rolled his eyes, “Little busy!” He called back, kicking out against the guy trying the pin him and wrestling out of the hold. 

“Oh. Fuck it.” He heard Steve mumble somewhere to his left before stepping up. Billy didn’t see it but he heard the crack as Steve knocked down one of the guys holding onto him. 

And he spun, freeing himself and lunging for the guy now going after Steve. He’s got him around the middle and delivers a punishing knee to send the dude reeling back. _Two down, one to go_. 

Billy turns just in time to see Steve grapple his way out of the vice grip the last dumbass had around his neck. Steve pulls back and uses his momentum to throw himself forward. Billy’s there though, providing a quick little leg sweep that sends the guy toppling to the pavement. Steve doesn’t even blink, just follows the poor bastard down and clocks him with a nasty punch. 

Billy’s reaching down, grabbing Harrington around the waist and pulling him back up to his feet. But Harrington is _yelling_. The rest of the idiots are staggering about, trying to get Tommy to hit feet, and hauling ass back down the alley. 

“Yeah! That’s right! You better run! You fucking cowards!” Steve hollers, lunging forward but Billy’s still got him by the waist. “Run! Get the fuck out of here! Don’t fuck with us!” He continues, pausing only when Tommy’s long out of sight. Slumps a little in Billy’s hold. Steve sniffs once. Spits out blood.

And it’s easy. Billy feels like maybe it’s always been this easy. 

They’re at the back of the alley, and it’s really nothing to sweep Steve around the corner. To press him up against the brick wall. To fit a hand right over Steve’s hip. To brush fingertips over the hot skin he finds there, right under Steve’s t-shirt. To slide his other hand up the side of Steve’s neck, let it push back into that soft fucking hair. To pull it back, gently, just a little, just enough to tip Steve’s face up. 

It’s nothing to lean in, to listen to Steve’s ragged breathing, to feel him press back up against him. 

“Steve?” Billy pulls back enough to wait. But Steve’s twisting his face up, like he’s having a hard time breathing and trying to fight it all at once. Steve’s shaking his head a little, but moves to grip Billy by the front of his shirt. 

“If you don’t, I’m going to knee you so hard in the balls you’ll,” 

Billy kisses him. 

Steve tastes like blood and sweat and grime and Billy’s smiling into it. Laughing when he feels Steve doing the same. It takes every last drop of self-restraint Billy has, but he leaves it there. Moves to press his smile into Steve’s hair. _Later_, he promises. 

Sirens wail around them, blue and red flashing lights illuminating the alley. 

“You gotta learn to keep your hands up.” Billy pulls back only to gently wipe the blood away from Steve’s cracked eyebrow. Steve fought well but one of the idiots must have managed to get a solid hit in. Harrington’s gonna have a beautiful black eye. “Protect this face.” Billy tries to swipe the rest of it away, before Steve is scoffing and pushing him off. 

“Is that all it took?” Steve looks up at him, astonished. And maybe a little angry? “Seriously? That’s it? I would have thrown down sooner if I knew.” Steve shoves his shoulder, glaring at Billy with equal measure of irritation, fury, and _heat_. And Billy’s gone. Not that he had much left. But he’s hopeless. His chest cracks wide open, deeper than the Upside Down. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Hargrove?” Steve laughs, but sways closer.

And Billy’s smile goes wide. _Soft_. Real. And he gestures broadly, plants his fucking feet. 

“Fight me and find out, Harrington.” 

Steve grabs a fistful of Billy’s shirt. 

“ALRIGHT ASSHOLES!” Hopper’s voice boomed from the bullhorn, “GET IN THE GODDAMN TRUCK.”


	27. him.

Billy paced. 

Which is almost impossible in the small spaces the trailer provides. But Billy Hargrove is nothing if not stubborn - so if he wants to fucking pace, he’ll fucking pace. In the cramped space in the kitchen until he let his tea steep for so long it went cold and bitter. In the small hallway from his bedroom to the washer and dryer, where he fitfully and aggressively scrubbed out the blood and dirt from his clothes. And, of course, on the deck. Where he nearly iced himself out, the cold air biting at his bare feet and exposed skin until it woke him up enough to pull him out of his head. 

He needed to see Steve. 

Hopper dragged their assess out of that alley and wasted absolutely no time making it crystal clear that there was going to be hell to pay. 

And that, honestly, Billy could respect. He fucked up. He broke a rule. Hop said no fighting and there he was, not even an hour ago, punching the motherfucker out. Fighting. He expected consequences. That’s the logical order of things. Was he sorry? No. Would he do it again? In a fucking heartbeat. But did he understand why Hopper was upset? Sure. Sort of. Watching Hopper get all pissed off and grumpy about it made sense to him. But what didn’t make sense? 

Hopper drove them both back to the station. Not saying a single word the entire trip. Upon immediately pulling into the station’s parking lot; Hopper called for a deputy to drive Billy home. 

And that was just that. 

Hopper offered nothing. No scathing remarks. No promises to talk to him later. Gave absolutely nothing away, nothing Billy could sparse out between the gruff looks and the put-upon sighs to help him understand just to what exact level he fucked up. 

The last thing he saw was Hopper pulling Steve into the station by the back of his (bloodied) jacket. 

Billy honestly didn’t care much if Steve got into ‘trouble’ with the Chief. Really, Billy threw the first punch. He should be the one getting the business end of Hopper’s wrath. But he doesn’t care. In fact, there’s really only one thing he cares about. And it’s not the fact that he broke one of Hopper’s rules, which has the potential of kicking him out of the trailer, and out of whatever weird in-between he’s been existing in as of late. No. He’ll freak out about that tomorrow. But tonight? He thinks back to fight. To Tommy’s careless words. Feels the white-hot crackle of anger settle in his bones. 

Someone put their hands on Steve. 

Not just tonight. Not because of a fight. 

Someone put their hands - their filthy, disgusting, greedy hands - on Steve. And took advantaged. With irreverent touches and false confidence. Covered it with shame and the thinnest of excuses. Threw it back in his face simply to cause pain. Made it hurt. The actions. The words. Made sure it _hurt._

Tommy even fucking admitted to it. Like it was nothing. Like it didn't matter. 

It’s simple, really. In Billy’s mind. There’s no gray area here. Little girls have superpowers. Monsters are real. And no one, _fucking no one,_ puts their hands on Steve. That’s his line. 

Billy’s speeding off in the Camaro seconds later. With a sense of quiet calm. There are so many problems in Hawkins and in his life that he can’t fix. But this isn’t one of them. This is an easy fix.

^

Tommy and the rest of them are exactly where Billy expected them to be. Out in Tommy’s backyard. Huddling around the fire pit like a pack of rabid dogs, licking their wounds and scooting their gross picnic chairs closer to try and absorb more heat. 

Billy’s pushing past the fence’s gate and feels every inch like a returning Roman emperor storming his former kingdom as he approaches the scene before him. 

He used to hold court here. _Rule_. Plot with his loyal, idiotic, subjects on how best to fuck shit up in Hawkins. This place was an exhausting but necessary stage, a crucial element in crafting the Billy Hargrove image. 

Christ, it feels like a lifetime ago. 

But he still knows every detail. The broken cooler Joey’s sitting on. Probably still filled with the same warm, flavorless beer. The packed down dirt around them. The grass seemingly giving up trying to grow where a rowdy bunch of teenaged boys regularly scrap and fight. He knows if he looks closely there will be scattered empties and crushed up packs of absolutely disgusting menthols strewn about the lawn. It was a barren, lawless wasteland of toxic pressure and unimaginable levels of bullshit. 

And yet, they’re still here. Sitting exactly where Billy left them. Guess some things never change. 

There’s some hollering, some general upheaval, as Billy marches right through the center of it, untouched. He's still Billy fucking Hargrove, still has that pull. The crowd, the gallery, falls blessedly silent when he draws his switchblade. The metal sparkling and glinting when it catches licks of firelight, like a sword from a past life. 

It’s the fear in Tommy’s eyes that gets to him. Get’s him hyped. Get’s him laughing. Wild and loud. Because it just feels _so fucking good_. Like shutting down another part of himself. Stepping into this one. And old one. A familiar one. Tommy wants to call him a monster? He’ll show him a fucking monster. 

Billy knows he’s fucked up. Knows his hands are just as dirty and filthy as Tommy’s. A fact that only fuels his vindication. Solidifies his intention. 

Billy _knows_ he's fucked up. Knows that there's more that Tommy and him have in common than what separates them. And past Billy Hargrove was vicious, mean, quick triggered and dangerous. He was a monster. But Tommy might be worse. 

You don't get to put your unwanted hands on someone else, don't get to take away the choice, don't get to violate and shame, and think you can get away with it. 

So he’s got Tommy by the collar, again. Twice in the same night, ain’t he lucky. And it’s too easy for Billy to leverage him forward. Hold him out over the fire, not enough to do damage, but close enough to feel the heat. Lets the tip of his blade press into Tommy’s throat. Again, not enough to do damage. But if Tommy’s squirming and panting and begging are anything to go by - the threats been well received. 

“You don’t touch him.” Billy starts, voice low and perfectly calm. 

Tommy’s eyes blow wide. Panic turning them into empty pools of blackness. 

“You don’t look at him.” Billy steps forward, adding more pressure to the flat side of the blade. “You don’t talk to him. You don’t breathe the same fucking air as him, you got it?” And Billy can’t help it. Really. He’s having too much fun. Feels the old Hargrove settle into his bones. Tenses the muscles in his bicep to let Tommy drop a few inches further down, towards the flickering flames below. 

Tommy _yelps._ Scrabbling for purchase on Billy’s arm, his shirt, grasping at nothing. Tries to dance and shake out of the hold. 

But Billy’s feet are firmly planted. An immovable force. 

Not a single one of the idiots attempts to intervene. 

“Fuck. Off.” Billy emphasizes, snapping the switchblade shut. Using his own dirty and filthy hands to fit around Tommy’s throat, squeezing. Pulling him back up. Closer to him. Gets him right to the point where they’re standing nose to nose. And Tommy’s shaking. Gasping out these pitiful little breaths. 

Billy leans in, presses his lips right up against Tommy’s ear. 

“Or I’ll kill you myself.” Billy whispers it, thick as honey and just as sugary sweet. Seals it with another rush of crazed laughter. Knowing his hot breath will sting across Tommy’s face, his neck. He spins him. Throws him down into the dirt with the rest of the trash. And walks away.


	28. impossible.

The problem with letting the old Billy Hargrove take over was that it was next to impossible to let Billy, this Billy, take back the reigns. Mostly because he didn't _want_ him to. 

It was like riding a bike. The warmth of welcomed angered licked right up his spine, the snap of his own strength cracked like lightning under his skin, flooding adrenaline quick and hot into his bloodstream. The rush of it was _unreal_. Missed. One hit of it and he was basically hooked, again, like the hopeless junkie he is. 

For the first time since waking up in Hawkins, Billy didn't feel like the kid that got possessed. Didn't feel like the sacrificed villager that shouldn't have survived. Didn't feel like the ghost escaped from the Upside Down, haunting the streets of nowheresville Indiana, pretending not to notice how everyone tried not to make eye contact with him. A new, pathetic and useless, version of the shadow monster. 

No. For the first time since waking up, Billy felt _real_. 

There's a certain power, an addictive power, in who he was before. All that viciousness and rapid-fire aggression meant something to him. Defined him. Told people not to fuck with him. Let him ascend to a class all his own, where everything was easily under his own control, and no one dared tried standing against him and lived to tell about it. 

That Billy was electric. Live and in color. Hot like the blue of a flame, sparking and blinding and harsh. 

This Billy was a shell of that. Pale like the slip of the moon over the lake. Cold and desolate like these Indiana winter winds. 

It was clear and obvious that everything really has changed in Hawkins. After Everything Happened, Billy somehow - through systems far beyond his comprehension - managed to end up here. Parked outside of a trailer that he almost believed he lived in now. 

Now there was a trailer. A deck filled with empty mugs, an overrun ashtray, and two obnoxious floral chairs. There was Hopper's snappy phone calls and his frustrating habit of just 'swinging by' every other day. There was Max and El and gross pizzas and having to fill up his gas tank _weekly_. There was Joyce's terrible cooking and the promise of being annoyed by the next person that walked through the door. There was a boy that tasted like split lips and the sweat after a good fight. There were these things now, things he knew but couldn't explain. 

He only needed to look at himself to see how clear and obvious it really was that everything has changed. Patient zero of the new Hawkins epidemic, for sure. But the most clear and obvious part of it all? 

This Hawkins, present, Rightside Up Hawkins, was no place for past Billy. 

And Billy knew that. In the same way he knew most things about himself. With resigned acceptance. 

And still that wasn't enough to let Billy, this Billy, take back the reigns. 

Before he let his brain catch up, Billy was out of his car. Flying into the trailer to throw on his running shoes and a sweatshirt. And set off in a dead sprint back down the gravel driveway, and cutting up through the woods to get to the path to the main road. 

Which was, you know. ridiculous. And entirely dramatic. Because it was _dark_. And Billy could barely see in front of him let alone whatever twigs and branches threatened to take him out. But it didn't matter. He just needed to run. To shake his bones and work his stupid lungs and wait for his mind to wipe clean. Hope for a reset. And hoping he doesn't actually crash into anything, like he almost did with Harrington that one time.. And fuck. _Fuck_. 

Steve. Steve can't see him like this. Not now. Not when Billy might have actually snapped. Steve's not, he doesn't, wouldn't want this. Steve had a year of past Billy, and was not a fan. Steve definitely doesn't want, doesn't think that he's that person anymore, that he's certainly not someone who would threaten someone else at knifepoint anymore. He knows this Billy. Talks to this Billy. Thinks he's softer. _Better_. Crawled into this Billy's arms after a nightmare. Pushed his way into this Billy's bed. Kissed this Billy. Not any other one. 

It's that thought that has him stretching the run, pushing himself faster, going further than he should when he knows he'll eventually have to turn around. Has him offering his harsh breathing, his pounding feet against the pavement, his layers of dirt and grime and sweat and blood and tears as some type of penance. 

^

Body drained and exhausted, Billy somehow makes it back to the trailer. It's probably close to three and Billy's muscles are feeling more like jello than tendons and ligaments. And that's fine. He won't be able to move tomorrow but he'll at least get to pass out cold tonight. Try again. 

His room is dark. Quiet. Wonderfully cold from the open windows. 

It takes him entirely too long to notice that Steve is fast asleep in his bed. 

Billy stands in the doorway to his room and stares, frozen and cracked right down the middle. Before he can come up with something to say, or do, Steve is moving. Shifting and stretching and sighing like a grumpy kitten, annoyed at being woken up. 

He's pretty sure he doesn't say anything. Or make any type of movement. His brain skitters and halts, too caught up in the fact that Steve's backpack is next to his desk, Steve's book - the book Billy got him - is on his nightstand, and Steve's walking towards him. 

Then there's hands. Steady and gentle and pushing off his sweatshirt. Pulling it up and over his head. The same steady and gentle hands prod him into kicking off his shoes, his socks. Nudges him in the direction of the sliding door. 

He's bone-deep tired and hazy and Billy's not ready to admit this is happening. 

It's stupid. The only clear thought he has is the hope that Steve used the front door this time. 

It's freezing out on the deck. Blasting and slicing right through you. And either they're both pretending not too notice, or they're both going through their own shit. 

Steve's hand is warm, though. Burning hot when it reaches over to grab his hand. Searing the skin right underneath his as he squeezes it. Lips rough and dry as he presses them against Billy's palm. Voice close, close and _real_, when he tells him to take his time. Slides back into his room, _his_ room, moving with familiarity that just may break him. 

Is this what he was running from? 

^

And. 

It's a familiar chorus. Parallel dimensions exists. Monsters are real. Little girls have super powers. Steve Harrington is in his bed. These are all things he knows but can't explain. 

What's one more impossible thing? 

He's an idiot. Truly. Alone on the deck and frozen despite the cold. Body used and exposed and not fucking _better_, but that's okay. 

He's got Steve Harrington in his bed. And there's not a single version of himself, this Billy or past Billy or Upside Down Billy or future Billy - that would have ever believed that. 

But he's got Steve Harrington in his bed. 

So what the hell is he still doing out here? 

^

He crawls into bed gently. So gently. Tittering on his knees and carefully pulling back the heavy blankets. Like it's not his own fucking bed he's climbing into. Steve left him absolutely no space. And it says a lot that Billy just _lets_ that happen. 

Steve's grunting, making these frustrated noises at being relocated from the middle of the bed. He even pushes and groans and scrunches up his eyebrows, acting like he's upset Billy didn't just pass out on the ice cold deck for good. And Billy almost believes it. Almost considers moving to the couch. 

But then there's a hand on his shirt, gripping the fabric. There's slide and shimmy and crash of Harrington collapsing most of body weight onto Billy's left side. Steve nose presses right up and under Billy's jaw. 

"Can I stay until the sunrise?" Steve mumbles, sleep rough and warm. Speaks it right into his skin. 

And what's one more impossible thing? 

Billy nods. Slides a hand under the back of Steve's shirt. And, for the first time, wishes the sun never does.


	29. patient.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's POV for this one.

The alarm on Steve’s watch beeps quietly, slowly waking him up. Then all at once. 

On instinct, Steve’s twisting around, pulling away from his spot on the bed. 

He squirms, shimmies, sighs - pushes himself half up, and finally creates enough space so he can move his arms and turn off the alarm. 

The faceplate of the watch stares back up at him. Broadcasting the time. A specific time. A very specific time Steve looked up last night, looked up in the book that Billy bought for him. Set his watch to it and fell right asleep. Right fucking there. In Billy's bed. Actually fell asleep. 

Steve rolls his eyes at himself, careful not to groan aloud and disrupt this little slice of peace around him. He’ll be silent about his embarrassment, remembering how his eyes stung. His throat clenched. How he was about to fucking _cry_ when Billy showed him how to look up the time of the sunrise. 

Which reminds him. 

Steve sweeps his gaze out and over the small room. Turns his whole upper body until he can see out of the doors the lead to the deck. Leans out a little further so he can see over the railing of the deck. To the lake beyond it. The still, dark blue reflected surface of the lake below. 

There’s an annoyed grunt from somewhere behind him. Deep and low and ridiculous. And there’s a solid arm, tightening around his waist. It pulls Steve back down. Back down against Billy’s chest. 

And Steve snorts, but goes with it. Collapses right back against all that warmth. 

The answering _oof_ and irritated half shrug, like Billy would really ever try to push him off, has Steve smiling goofy and lopsided. Smug, even. 

He’s learned that Billy’s not going to ask. Probably won’t tell him. And Steve thinks that maybe they’ll get there eventually. But he doesn’t really care. He’s learned to read every last smirk and posture and eye roll and sigh and headlong stare like a fucking pro. It’s not difficult. 

Billy Hargrove’s an open book if you’re paying attention. 

So he doesn’t have to hear it. The words. He’s fine with an arm around his waist, tightening its hold, pulling him back into it. He gets the message. 

Which has him turning, leaning up onto a shoulder, and hovering over soft curls and thick eyelashes and patchy stubble. Billy’s flat on his back. Clearly trying his best to go back to sleep, face all pinched and scrunched and grumpy about being woken up. His head turns just slightly against the pillow, away from the breaking morning light streaming in through the windows. 

Steve plants a knee next to Billy’s hip, and pushes himself up completely. And he takes one second to be embarrassed about the fact that given their positions, Steve must have slept on Billy. Like literally on top of guy. He spends a few more seconds marveling at the fact that Billy just _let him_. 

But Billy’s always doing that. 

Just let’s Steve push and prod and annoy and badger and yell and cry and _stay_. 

Billy really does say a lot when you stop trying to listen. 

And Steve thinks that if Billy can do it, he can share too. 

So Steve’s reaching forward. It’s easy. Like this. When they're this close. He’s all light fingertips and soft touches when he wants to be, he’s fucking _great_ at it actually. He pushes back a curl from Billy’s forehead and streams his hand down. Floats the tip of his index finger over an eyebrow, doesn’t miss the small notch taken out. Where a cut has healed. He’s close enough to see the small scar, pink skin. New. Healed. 

“The first time.” Steve whispers, runs his finger over the scar again. “In the back of Hopper’s truck. You had a cut right here.” 

And there’s nothing else to do, is there? 

He checks his watch and with one more quick glance over towards the doors leading to the deck - still blue, maybe a little lighter - Steve’s bowing forward. It’s a quick kiss, just a soft press of lips right above Billy’s eyebrow. It still has him shaking down to his core.

“Wanted to do that that night.” 

His voice, rough and cringeworthy but _honest_.

And it’s blinding. Effortlessly stunning. Steve watches pink tinge high cheek bones. Watches the bright red of a bitten lower lip. Uses his thumb to reach out and free it, knowing he’ll probably get burned. Set on fire. Doesn’t give a single fuck. Watches the barest hint of a smile, the briefest slip of bright blues. Hears the annoyed grunt again of Billy trying to fight it and Steve laughs, _laughs_. In the morning. At this precise time of morning. When he’s usually knee deep in mud and caked in sweat and half out of his mind. 

So he stares back down. Stares back down at nothing but pure California sunshine. Watches it break. Rise. Crack wide open, spread across Billy’s whole face. Just for a second. Hears it grumble, _go the fuck back to sleep_. 

Steve check his watch again. 

Two minutes late. 

That book is a goddamn liar. 

Or maybe within the margin of error. 

He’s not really sure how these things work. But he knows if he were to check now, if he were able to look away even for a second, he would see the surface of lake bathed in light blues. Maybe even soft pinks and oranges. Maybe he’d stare out long enough to see the tree-line backlit in hazy light. It might be nice, pretty even. Might be comforting and convincing. 

It might. But Steve’s reaching back out. Light fingertips and soft touches. He’s probably not going to stop anytime soon. Not when Billy just lets him. He chases what’s left of the blush up and over a cheekbone, presses against the heated skin of Billy’s ear. Can’t seem to stop touching. Laughs again, and if it’s twinged with a little manic energy like it usually is, he doesn’t even care, because a sun rise has never felt like this before. 

He’ll tell Hopper about it later. He’s sure. And Hop will set his face like stone and rub his jaw and sigh but he’ll listen. He’ll tell Steve to take it slow. To breathe. To sit down and think about it. He’ll talk to him about respecting boundaries. _Again_. To be patient. _Again_. To. Take. It. Slow. And yeah, Hop will probably tell him that not even Billy freaking Hargrove is a valid excuse to skip any of his appointments with Dr. Owens. But Steve will tell him about it and Hopper will listen. 

Steve’s fingers stray. Wander down Billy’s neck. Tangle in loose curls. Scratch at unruly stubble. 

“Quit it.” Billy breathes out, twitches slightly. 

Of course Steve continues, can’t help it. He’s here. In Billy’s bed. Feeling. Just fucking feeling. And not being afraid of feeling it for maybe the first time. So he soaks it in. Bites his own bottom lip to keep all of it from pouring out. 

He leaves Billy’s stubble alone but trails his hand back over the cut of that jaw. The sharpness he’s used to seeing, eased out. Rounded off now. Lax. Moves to press his hand right to the center of Billy’s chest. For once, covered, nothing but soft cotton and the bump of a pendant under Steve’s hand. And Billy’s breathing deep, slow, even, steady. Reliable. Steve’s hand rising and falling with it. Resting right there on his chest. And underneath him Billy’s nothing but soft lines and heavy muscles that never looked less threatening. 

Steve taps his fingers against Billy’s sternum. 

“’Said knock it off.” Billy gruffs out, shifts, turns his face back into a pillow. 

The desire that settles into Steve’s bones is overpowering, demanding. He thinks it probably feels like getting swallowed up by the whole damn ocean. 

But. 

It’s hard to look down at Billy. To see him loose and sleepy and cozy and grumpy with his own fucking eyes and not want to immediately press himself into Billy’s skin. Stay there. Linger and just fucking breathe in everything, every last little thing that’s between them. Tell the monsters and the rest of Hawkins and literally everyone else to fuck off. Leave them be. They’re good. 

He would do it. That’s the thing. Steve would claim the piece of land where the trailer sits. Would claim the whole fucking forest. Stick a flag on top of the highest hill. He would put up signs, police tape, fucking barbed wire fencing if he could. Just to preserve this. To have Billy loose and sleepy and cozy and grumpy underneath him. Steve would protect it. Fuck everyone else. Keep the fuck out. This is theirs. 

They’re owed that much. 

And still. 

This is Billy. And Steve's like, so much _better_ at this. Is fucking _great_ at it. 

So. 

There's desire. And then there's the whole new feeling of actually knowing Billy's not going fucking anywhere. And then there's just a flood of excitement, new and crisp and pouring through all of the open windows in Billy's room. 

He's going to respect the fuck out of the boundaries. He's going to take it so goddamn slow. You ain't never seen someone be so fucking patient the way that Steve will be patient. He's so fucking pumped. He's going to rock so hard at this. Blow him away. Honestly. Hargrove won't know what hit him 'em. 

Steve’s five o’clock shadow isn’t nearly as impressive as Billy’s but he’s got enough of it to lean forward, to squish his face against the soft skin at Billy’s neck. To drag his chin, his jaw, against it. 

“Je-_sus_.” Billy grumbles, puts some fire into it. Now fully irritated. And he’s hitting Steve with a shoulder, trying to pull away and burrow back into the bed, “Goddamn fucking menace.” 

Steve only turns with him, raises his hand again. 

But Billy’s lightning fast. Even half-asleep. Catches him right at the wrist. 

“Out.” Billy snaps, voice rough from disuse. "You're kicked out." He's shaking Steve’s wrist a little and gesturing away from the bed. Billy drops his hand and literally gives him the cold shoulder, turns his back to him. Grumbling and sighing as he goes, pulling the blankets up and over him. “Go be fucking antsy and handsy literally anywhere the fuck else.” 

Steve’s certain his face is going to split from all this grinning. He extricates himself from the bed as obnoxiously as possible. Flops and twists and bounces as he goes. 

Heaves a great sigh once he’s standing. Stretches his arms above his head just to hear the satisfying _pop _ in his lower back, groans out noisily with it. 

“Fine.” Steve sighs, dramatically. “Guess I’ll just go get handsy with all your kitchen appliances. You want breakfast?” 

“Harrington.” Billy says it like he’s pained. Like he’s contemplating homicide. 

Steve knew this would work. See? Billy’s too easy. Goddamn open book. 

He starts walking out of the room, calls over his shoulder, “I’m gonna chop up like, all your fancy vegetables.” Steve laughs at himself, “Gonna chop them up all wrong, dude.” 

Steve hears the echoing sound of a long, drawn out, life-questioning sigh. 

“How ‘bout pancakes?” Steve calls from the hallway. “Yeah, I think I'll make you pancakes. So many sugar filled pancakes, you know? Like, like a whole river of maple syrup, too. Just for you.” 

Steve hears the tossing of blankets. The muttered curses. The vivid and creative name calling. 

He turns himself fully into the kitchen, has to raise his voice even more. Goes for Billy’s throat.

“Gonna put like _so much_ butter in the pan. Just gonna fucking coat the whole thing. Maybe fry up some bacon too and just-”

“Don’t you fucking touch a goddamn thing in that kitchen you absolute motherfucker.” 

And Steve turns just in time to see the sunrise. Breaking high through the small windows in the kitchen. Storming out of it’s room while hopping around on one foot, trying to wrangle on some sweatpants, letting Steve know in extreme detail what will happen to him if he so much as _looks_ at Billy's tomatoes. 

^

Later, while he’s chowing down on whatever Billy put in front of him - he’s not really sure what it is but he’s positive he’s never had eggs cooked like this before and he’s certain he’s never eaten this much avocado in his entire life - Steve will catch Billy’s dumb smirk as Steve’s humming along to the small radio planted above the kitchen sink. He’ll zone out in the second it takes to watch Billy roll his eyes at him, correct him on the lyrics. 

He’ll think of how easy this feels. How he doesn’t even notice. Later, he’ll think about it. He’ll breathe out. His shoulders will drop approximately an eighth of an inch. He’ll take on the day ahead of him. And he will be okay.


	30. happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the final chapter (: it only took six months. apologies in advance, it's pretty sappy. but you know, it's the end and we're all about the happy endings. I’m dontfuckingstartwithme on tumblr if ya wanna say hi.

Listen, Billy’s not great at making bold statements like this - but watching Blade Runner with Steve is just about his new favorite thing. Like, he might even like it more than Ms. Kroger’s organic apple stand at Hawkins’ only farmer’s market. And like, Ms. Kroger is his _girl_.

Apparently, Buckley said Blade Runner was her new favorite movie, laughed right in Steve’s face when he admitted to never seeing it, and rented it out from Family Video for him. And Steve’s been trying to understand it since.

It’s the third, no fourth, time they’ve watched it this week. And Billy’s taken to sitting on the floor in front of Steve because he actually can’t handle Steve’s entirely too confused face. The way he squints hard at Billy’s small TV. The way he always looks like he’s about to ask a question when Harrison Ford literally does anything at all. The way he bites it back. The way he aggressively shushes Billy when he attempts an explanation. The way he shifts in his spot, pulling his legs up halfway in, still rapt attention and leaning forward. The way he’ll insist on rewinding - like the ending will magically change. Will finally make sense. Like he hasn’t fucking seen it three times already. 

Like he said, Billy can’t handle it. 

So he’s more than happy to plop himself down in front of the couch. Stretch out in the space between it and the small TV stand. And more or less drift in and out, letting Steve watch and rewatch the dumb movie, mostly unbothered. And if he shifts down a little, presses his shoulders into the back of the couch, digs his feet into the trailer’s nice living room rug that Joyce bought for him, it’s the perfect angle where he can tip his head back and let it rest comfortably on the edge of the couch. 

And like. If Billy holds himself real still. Steve might direct some of that restless energy his way. Might just let one of his big hands drift down to play at blond curls spilling over onto the couch. Might just let that hand slide up the back of Billy’s head. Billy might just inch a little bit closer, tilt his head to the side, let it rest on Steve’s knee. He might just doze the fuck off while Steve’s still watching Blade Runner, mindlessly running soft and slow fingers through his hair. 

And. You know. 

That’s some good shit. 

Billy would watch that goddamn movie a hundred times over. Just like this. 

Which is what he planned on doing the rest of the night. Maybe get in a good nap right there on the floor, pressed up between Harrington and the couch. Hell, he might even get in a few good hours of actual sleep. He already made dinner. Made extras, too. Even packaged everything up in separate containers, stacked neatly in his small fridge. So all anyone had to do is stick it in the oven and let it warm up if they wanted something to eat. Which had been happening a lot lately. The whole _other people eating his cooking_ business. Harrington opened his big dumb mouth and now he’s got Max and El over every other night, sometimes even one of the other gremlins (he’s not sure who, he can’t tell them all apart, but at least this one is usually _quiet_), throwing back leftovers like they haven’t seen a good meal in days. Which is ridiculous. They just know they can get away with it. Billy should probably stop catering to them. He should definitely stop. He’ll only encourage it if he continues. 

Anyway, he’s already made dinner. And nobody needs to be dropped off or picked up or shuttled around for the rest of the night. Hopper hasn’t called and probably won’t now that it’s late into the evening. Billy even finished up his latest assignment for class a few days early. So. Tonight. Tonight he was going to be as lazy as possible, stretch this whole Steve’s warm, giant hands slowly and methodically fucking up all his curls for as long as possible, and take a goddamn minute to rest. 

But this is Hawkins. A town that doesn’t let nice things stay nice for very long. 

And maybe Billy should have expected the night to take a turn for the worst. Things have been going a bit too well. Maybe he should have known they were about to get thrown for another fucking loop. But he’s a simple man. He’s got a warm trailer, good food, and Steve right next to him. He’s good. Fucking fantastic. Wasn’t in the particular mindset to go looking for trouble. Apparently it just finds him. 

^

It happens all at once. One second he’s sleeping and the next second he’s not. Pulled right back into full alertness. Already trying to push himself up off the floor. 

El’s in trouble. 

“Oh, hey there sleeping beauty, I -”

“The fuck are my keys?” Billy’s patting himself down and trying to sidestep the coffee table, his stack of books, and the couch all at once. Stumbles right into an end table. Knocks it over in his rush towards the door. He needs to be there _now_. 

“Um, probably on the counter? Are you, uh. You okay there, superman?” 

Shoes. He needs shoes. Shoes and a jacket and his fucking keys and it’s probably only a ten minute drive to the cabin. 

“I can get there in five.” He mutters roughly, promising himself, yanking on his boots by the door. 

“Get where? Billy, where the fuck do you think you’re going?” 

He snaps his jacket on over his sweater, stuffing his hands inside. Letting out an irritated growl when his keys aren’t there in the pockets. He doesn’t have time for this. El is trouble and he needs to be there right fucking now and maybe he’ll just run there if he can’t find - 

“My goddamn fucking keys.” He snarls, turning around to viciously pat down every jacket hanging on the coat hooks by the door, throwing them to the floor when they don’t magically yield his car keys. 

“Hey.” 

There’s a hand gripping his elbow. 

And Billy turns quickly. Only stifles the urge to rip out of the hold when he’s met with Steve’s stern face, his steady gaze. Deep brown eyes locked with his. 

“Your keys are probably in the bowl on the kitchen counter. Where you put them every day.” Steve’s explaining slowly, keeping his voice even and serious. “But you’re not driving fucking anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.” 

And Steve must be able to sense it. Billy’s small twitch in the direction of the kitchen. Tightens his vice grip against Billy’s forearm. Holds him there. 

And Billy can’t. This is Steve but Billy _can’t_. He can’t explain it but El needs him and she’s in trouble and he can feel it under his fucking skin, can feel it under his feet, can feel the whole ground fucking _shake_ and he needs to leave right now or else god knows what might crawl out of the depths of hell again and - 

“Billy.” Steve steps close. And Billy hears it in his tone. Feels those hands move to his shoulders. But he’s no closer to actually offering up anything else. Can’t think. Just needs to get there. Now. 

He maybe starts to shake. 

“Okay.” Steve nods once. And steps back. Produces his own keys. “But I’m driving. Explain in the car.” 

Billy breathes out. 

And. 

He can’t fathom why Steve struggles with something as mundane as understanding Blade Runner when he clearly has the higher level orders of thinking needed to master the complexities of the nonverbal Hargrove language. 

^ 

“So you just, like,” Steve changes his grip on the steering wheel, shoots him a questioning look, “sensed it?” 

Billy shifts down in his seat, “I guess.”

“As in, like, you had one of those bad feelings?” Steve pulls his face into one of working confusion, “Like when you think something terrible is going to happen?”

“No.” Billy huffs, scrubs his face, “No. It’s not. Fuck.” They need to be at the cabin _right fucking now_, he can’t even _think_, and Steve keeps fucking looking at him like that and Billy just, “I don’t - it’s not a feeling, okay? I just know.” 

“Right.” Steve narrows his gaze, attempts a placating nod, “Okay. And we’re sure you’re not tapping into some weird brotherly connection? You haven’t seen the girls in a couple of days, it makes sense if you feel like you have to check in on them or -”

“Then I would have fucking called, Harrington.” Billy snaps out, and spares one second of his agitation to feel a little bit guilty last-naming Steve when the brunette’s face falls. Billy sighs, he’s worked on this, he has. “Listen,” he starts again, voice purposefully lower, “There’s no way I can explain it that’s going to make any sense. All I know is,” Billy breathes, turns in the passenger seat to face Steve, “something is wrong. El’s in trouble. And we needed to be there like, three minutes ago. So fucking step on it, okay?”

And Steve looks towards him, then back at the road. Then back towards him. Narrows his eyes, “Okay, but how do you _know_ she’s in trouble?”

Billy breathes out noisily, sends Steve a warning look. 

Steve’s hand flies up, message received, “Hey, I’m just trying to understand.” 

“And I’ve explained.” Billy bites out. 

“Yeah but,” Steve trails off, voice quieting a little, “what you’re explaining is -”

“Say crazy to my face and I’ll punch you in the dick.” 

“Relax, superman. I was gonna say impossible.” 

“Yeah, well. Par for the fucking course then, right?” Billy sighs, pushing his shoulders back into the passenger seat. Wondering when Hawkins is going to cut him a goddamn break. 

^

Billy bounds up the steps to the cabin in two strides. Doesn’t miss how the crappy old shutters are blown open, the curtains billowing _outward_. He clocks the flickering lights, the buzz of static in the air, the way the door gently vibrates in his hand as he throws it open. 

Hopper spins to greet him, standing in the middle of the living room, clearly caught off guard by the intrusion. 

It’s the fact that Hopper looks a little relieved to see him, maybe even a little panicked - at least the most visibly panicked Billy’s ever seen the Chief look - that has him moving towards the couch. Bracing for the worst. 

“You should have called.” Billy bites out, even though he has no right to say it. Hopper doesn’t need his help. Has absolutely handled worse on his own. And Billy’s not a part of all of this. Hopper will always do what he thinks is best for El and usually that doesn’t remotely involve Billy in any way. He gets that. 

Still. 

Hopper only shrugs, gaze never leaving the curly headed form laid out on the sofa, and half gestures towards the phone hanging up in the kitchen. The burn marks are evident even from this far away, “She blew out the wiring.” 

But Billy’s already moving. Slipping, really. Already feeling that magnetic tug, that buzz of cool nothingness press against the back of his eyes. He’s already sort of kneeling at the couch by the time he realizes it’s Steve’s hands guiding him gently down towards the floor, moving the small table out of the way, pushing softly so Billy’s sitting more comfortably, telling him to _take your time, I’ll be here, we’ll be here, just be careful._

Billy closes his eyes. Waits. 

Finds her. 

And there’s a crack. 

A jolt of electricity that bolts right through him. Anchors him down. And he’s sputtering the next second, his skin tingling, coming to in the blank void. 

It’s nothing like before. There’s no impulse to connect. No anticipation. There’s no haze of a warm memory or a pull to share. 

There’s nothing. 

Billy would have thought that he somehow bypassed El’s headspace and accidentally stumbled into some other dark layer of Upside Down hell if it wasn’t for the quiet sniffling, the sounds of small hiccups, trying to be repressed. 

“El?” Billy breathes out, unsure if he’s saying it aloud or in his own head. 

He’s staring into the black emptiness one second, blinks, fights for it, and opens his eyes to a small room. Harsh fluorescent lights from above have him squinting and bringing his arm up to shield his eyes from the glare that reflects off the two way mirror that takes up one wall of the room. The sea-foam green tiles that panel the rest of the walls make him nauseous. The bitter antiseptic smell of the room overwhelms his nostrils, sends his head spinning. And the grate of the metal table slowly scraping across the concrete floor sets his teeth on edge. 

His whole body stiffens, on alert. Billy spins to face the middle of the room; 

and there’s El. Sitting rigidly on a metal chair pushed up close to the table, frozen in her spot, staring intently at a fucking can of Coke. 

Billy knows enough about El so he’s always extra cautious around her. Always telegraphs when he’s about to move around her, checks his voice when it starts to climb, doesn’t intend to startle or rattle her one her purpose. She’s, perhaps, one of the few he actively does that for. Plus, you know, you don’t fuck with a kid that can snap your neck in an instant. 

So it’s with that knowledge that he starts moving closer to her, slowly. Inch by inch. Even raises his hands slowly and deliberately because he _knows_ what she’s capable of, but doesn’t know what’s bouncing around in that curly head of hers. 

It’s only when he’s crouching down beside her, does he see it.

She’s still frozen, still staring, no glaring, at that Coke can, but there’s tracks. Silent tears. Fat and round drops sliding down her cheek. Hitting the table by her elbow. And she’s not even shaking, not sniffling or trying to catch her breath. 

Just crying. Without making a single sound. Without trying to move a muscle. 

Like if she stayed quiet enough, still enough … 

Billy decides, in that moment, to throw extra caution to the fucking wind. 

And he’s moving, has to, kneels right next to her.

“Hey, kid,” he starts, desperate, wraps his arm around the back of her chair. She only blinks, slowly. Doesn’t make any indication that she knows he’s there. “Okay, hey, hey,” Billy drops his voice to a quiet murmur, not knowing what the hell he’s doing but knowing he needs El to turn and look at him, to get those tears to fucking _stop_, “You’re alright. Yeah, you’re okay. Hey, I got you, okay?” And Billy’s reaching out, not really caring if it causes her to jerk her head and knock him out, he places one hand over her elbow. 

“That’s it,” Billy nods as he watches El breathe out, “You’re good. Whatever it is we’ll figure it out, okay? Just gotta breathe.” And he’s carefully sliding his hand up, up to her shoulder. Feels her deep intake of breath rattle her small frame. Watches her flinch. 

Watches her face crumble. 

Feels himself crumble, really. 

“El, honey,” Billy’s right there, thumbing away fresh tears, ready to fight the whole fucking Upside Down again, “what is it?” 

And maybe he tugs a little. Maybe his voice goes a little too dangerous and low when he sees El like this. Maybe he’s just freaking out. 

But whatever it is has El finally shifting. Slowly. Just enough. Finally has her looking over at him; weary and confused and wrung-out and lost. 

“Billy?”

Her voice cracks over his name. 

“Yeah, kid. It’s me.” Billy whispers, waits. Watches El’s eyes do this horrible fluttering thing, hears her take this gasping breath;

And nearly topples to his ass when El lunges for him, pulls herself right to his chest, and _sobs_. 

Relief flooding through him, Billy anchors her with an arm around her shoulders, holds her in a tight hug. 

“You’re okay, hey, you’re okay, just breathe, alright?” Billy repeats over and over again, tries to keep the panic out of his own voice. He doesn’t know where they are, what’s going on, or why she’s so upset, but he can do this. He can be this, he’s learning that he can be this. God knows he’s not the best at it. Knows that not one part of himself screams ‘comfort.’ Knows that Hopper or Joyce or fucking Steve would know how to handle this better, be better for El in this moment. But they’re not here. He is. And fuck, right now he’ll be anything if it means getting El to calm the fuck down and _breathe_. 

So they stand there, just like that. And Billy holds her through it, feels the tears wet against his shirt, feels her back rattle with heaving breaths. Eventually it eases up just enough, just enough to pull away and let her get out the rest of it. Let her wipe her nose on her shirtsleeve, close her eyes until her breathing even backs out. 

Billy turns and sits against the closest wall, pushing his back firmly against. He pats the concrete spot next to him. 

“Ready to talk?” 

And El looks at him wearily, which, _fair_. But doesn’t object. Billy gets it, they don’t talk. They eat crazy amounts of food and read quietly and burn all of his gas money but they don’t talk. It’s not like he’s a big advocate for it. But right now El looks like she’s two seconds away from bolting, from zapping herself into another room away from everyone else, from closing up and shutting down and wow, Billy knows that feeling. 

So. 

He tries not to count the long seconds it takes her to shuffle over and sit down next to him against the wall. 

She holds herself tight. Knees hugged to her chest. 

He waits. 

Waits. 

El shifts, looks over and up at him, “Why are you here?” 

“Why am I,” Billy stuttered, almost laughing. Like he had a choice. She pulled him right out his nap. Dragged him across Hawkins. Dumped him into this room that looks like it's straight out of a horror flick. He gestures broadly, hoping to encompass all of this craziness, “kid, why are you here?” 

El only turns her head slowly back towards the table, stares at the Coke can.

“I can’t.” 

Billy squints, hard, looking between her and the Coke can for answers. 

“Can’t what?”

El raises her arm, her hand out flat. And slowly crumbles her hand to make a tight fist. 

Billy braces but the only thing that happens is a few more tears fall down her cheek. 

She shakes her head, voice choked around a soundless cry, “Can’t.” 

And it’s in the way that El looks defeated, the way she stares at the can like she’s apologizing, that has Billy thinking there's something much deeper, much darker going on here. 

It takes him a few seconds to fit all the pieces together. Max mentioned this briefly to him only once. Something about El running out of juice right after Everything Happened. Apparently it only lasted a few days, supergirl just needed to recharge her batteries or something like that. Billy didn’t press. 

And he has no idea what’s going on now, but he can feel it in the air. In the way El’s shoulders slump forward, how she hangs her head between them. There's not a trace of that cold-blooded _don’t mess with me_ attitude she’s owned as of late, and he’s come to admire from her. 

She looks back at him, only for a moment. And Billy sees it play clear across her face, he gets it. There was no recent battle. No incredibly nasty fight that exhausted her powers. Besides Hawkins usual level of bullshit, nothing supernatural or particularly Upside Down-ish has popped up. 

It’s not that she can’t just crush the Coke can. She must not be able to do _anything_. And she doesn’t know why. 

“Hey, it’s okay, ”

“Not okay!” El shouts, her voice loud and shocking in the small space between them. Billy hears it echo off the walls. Echo in his head. She throws her hands out violently, “Not okay. I can’t.” El enunciates, voice breaking and rough, “Can’t do anything.” 

Billy watches her hands shake, watches her push them through her mess of curls. Breathing fast and quick and eyes bouncing all over the room and she must be _terrified_. Billy certainly doesn’t know what it’s like to have superpowers, doesn’t know what it’s like to have them stripped away. But he does know El. 

“That’s not true.” Billy starts, stops when El cuts him a sharp, dangerous look. A glimmer of that fire he’s used to seeing from her. 

“Billy.” El looks up at him, near glare, voice flat in offense.

“It’s not.” Billy stands his ground, returns her open look because he needs her to understand this, “It’s not true, kid. You lost your powers, right? That’s what all this is about?” 

El regards him carefully, critically. Slowly gives the slightest nod. 

“You’re still plenty capable,” Billy attempts again, but El’s already shaking her head quickly back and forth, already cutting him off to disagree. 

“I. Can’t.” El practically growls, anger coloring her tone. Filling up the space in the room. Billy thinks he can taste it in the air. “I’m,” El’s voice wobbles, just for a second. But she’s doing this scary breathing thing, harsh and fast, balling her fists, “I’m nothing. Useless.” She states, wide eyes locked on his, still crying, still spitting angry, still probably capable of knocking him the fuck out if he gets this wrong. 

“Jesus, kid,” Billy’s sighing, “just ‘cause you got your wires crossed up and they’re all misfiring doesn’t mean you’re useless.” 

El’s glare she throws at him couldn’t look more suspicious but at least her shoulders drop, incrementally, her breathing takes the pattern of something more normal. 

She sighs too, heavy and deep just like he did. Billy doesn’t hide his smirk. 

El slumps back against the wall, exhausted. 

“I can’t help.” She says, voice flat, eyes unfocused, “Can’t fight.” 

Billy checks the room for demodogs. The Mind Flayer. The fucking boogeyman. 

“Good thing no one's fighting.” 

El musters up another critical look. And hey, he gets that, too. Sometimes it feels like you’re never not fighting. There’s always something else coming down the pipe. The only thing you can do is brace. Get ready. Plant your feet. Be the scariest monster in the room. Billy has the scars, from many different monsters, that showcase his experience. Knows El has her own, too. Doesn’t want her thinking they have to define her. Doesn’t want her believing that has to be her normal. There’s life beyond battle cries and swinging fists. 

And well fuck. 

Huh. 

Ain’t that a fucking revelation. 

_You’re supposed to tell me that it gets better_. Steve once told him, bundled up on a patio chair, half hidden in his hoodie, eyes wide and searching just like El’s are now. And maybe Billy has a different perspective now. Funny how that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention. 

So he’s looking out over this room El pulled him into, not needing to guess at what kind of horrible fucking things happened here. He’d bet everything that it was something that made El feel like she had to prove her _worth_. Billy wants to set the whole room on fire. 

El shuffles around, tucks her head to her knees. “I don’t know what to do.” 

“Well,” Billy laughs, moving to stand up, “let’s start with getting the hell out of here, huh?” 

But El’s got him by the forearm. And he’s back flat on his ass with one tug. 

“I don’t know what to _do_.” El implores, stressing it with different emphasis in the way she does when Billy’s not understanding what she means. 

So he sits back down, makes it clear he’s still listening. Always. And waits. Watches her mind spin and click over whatever she’s trying to put together. 

“Out there.” El gestures in a random direction, “I don’t know what to do.” She repeats again, quieter. “Anymore.” 

“You mean back in Hawkins?” Billy clarifies, and when El’s face pulls tight he adds, “With Hopper?” 

El looks briefly back towards the table. But closes her eyes. Blinking away a few more errant tears. 

“Useless.” She chokes out, voice broken. 

“Oh honey, no,” Billy’s heart breaks right there, right fucking there, “No, fuck that. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t. Jesus fuck, kid, he doesn’t care at all,” and Billy’s all quick movements. Pushing away El’s hands when she tries to cover her face, sliding so he can crouch directly in front of her. “He loves the hell out of you, powers or no powers. You got that? Is that what this is all about?” And Billy’s brushing away the fresh tears, waits. Waits for her to catch her breath. Waits for her gaze to settle on his. 

“El, listen to me,” Billy starts, voice fucking steady because he needs her to get this. Because he can do this, he can fucking do this and he will do this right because he knows. Fuck. He knows. Knows what happens when you get it wrong. 

He will not ever, _ever_, let her think that she has to demonstrate her worth to earn someone’s care. Billy thought the world worked like that, too. Before. 

“You listening?” He checks, waits for her small nod, “You are so much more than fighting monsters and nosebleeds, you have to know that.” 

“I can’t -” She starts to protest but Billy shuts it down. 

“So what?” He asks her, shrugs too. Clocks El’s astonished look and doubles down because he needs her to understand that the supergirl shit _does not matter_, “Really, so fucking what? Let’s just say your powers never come back.” Billy waves out a hand when El looks like she’s about to cut in again, “Relax, kid, they’re going to. They’re going to come back, but let’s just say, worst case scenario, they never do.” 

And El all but collapses back against the wall, eyes distant and looking like that’s about the worst thing she can imagine. 

Someone did a fucking _number_ on her. 

Billy laughs.

Which earns him a severe, neck-snapping kind of look. 

“So you’ll never move shit with your mind again? So what?” Billy presses, and leans down until she’s looking directly into his eyes, lowers his voice, “That doesn’t make you any less of a person. Or any less valuable. You’re still you, curly.” Billy reaches out, ruffling her hair until she’s batting him away, fighting back a smile, “You’re still tough and a badass and so fucking loved, kid, you have no idea. No one, and I mean no one, is going to love you any less.”

Billy breathes out, shakily, because that was a lot of words for him. A lot of words put together in quick order and talking is a lot more difficult when you actually mean what you say. 

But it's worth it. Because El's wiping snot on her shirt and lifting her head. Looking back into his eyes, his whole life really, and holding him to it. Looking open and honest and her voice clear when she asks, 

“Promise?”

Billy nods, sets his face because he's never been more serious in his life. 

“Promise.”

El nods too, and Billy knows it's going to take more than just words to get her believing, to change her mind entirely. But, you know, that's what family is for. 

"But what do I do?” El asks, pressing back up against the wall. 

And Billy smiles wide, relaxed. Even throws his arms out, “What all the rest of us boring and ordinary humans do, figure it out as you go.”

He smirks at El's confused stare. Because yeah, real life is a bitch. 

“Oh don’t worry," Billy nods, smug, "you’ll get the hang of it. It’s a steep learning curve but you just keep making mistakes until you get it right," he shrugs, slides back over so he can sit down next to her, "Or until you’re happy.”

“Happy?” El asks, tone shaded in abject skepticism. 

“Yeah, kid.” Billy runs rough hands through his hair, “I think that’s sort of the goal.”

Not that he would know but -

“Are you happy?” El turns, asks him directly. Her face all red and blotchy from crying, eyes searching and hopeful. 

And well. 

Shit. 

Is he? Is he happy?

What does that even look like? 

And haven’t they done this before?

Shouldn't he get a pass? 

One look at El tells him that that's a solid no, he's not getting out of this one easily. 

“Uh," Billy blows out a long breath, "I’m working on it.” Surprises himself with that bit of honesty. 

But El cuts him an unimpressed look, knowing he's holding back. And he's all set to defend himself but El shifts, smirks a little. Her eyes fucking sparkle, shimmer with something like mischief. 

“Steve makes you happy.”

“What.” Billy snaps out, entirely caught off guard. El only stares back at him, glowing, and Billy stumbles over a laugh, “Where the hell did that come from?”

“Here.” She quickly leans forward, pokes his chin, “You smile. Next to him.”

“Do I?" Billy sputters, shakes his head, because what. He looks out around the room, tries to recover. "'Cause most of the time I feel like I’m rolling my eyes next to Harrington.”

El shakes her head, not taking his bullshit, "No. Happy.”

And to Billy's absolute horror, he feels the back of his neck heat up. 

He's running a hand through his hair, again, down his neck, like he can force it to stop. 

"Yeah, whatever.” Billy sighs, shrugs, aims for careless but knows he falls somewhere in the pathetic zone. 

El laughs. Brightly. Laughs right in his face. 

“Shut up.” Billy huffs, feeling like he's thirteen again, his momma gently teasing him over having a crush. 

El laughs more, giggles, really. "He talks about you." She offers, can't barely contain it. "All the time.”

Billy rolls his eyes sky high, "He talks about everything all the time, never shuts up.” He states, but El's not having any of it. 

Throws him an all too knowing look. See right through him, honestly. 

“Billy.”

“El.”

“Billy.” She presses, stressing slowly and deliberately over his name - and like _hell_ if this kid doesn’t still have superpowers, just maybe not the ones she’s used to.

“Yeah, I know, alright. I get it, kid.” Billy fights off whatever is crawling up from his throat, tells his stupid brain to calm the fuck down. 

El hums, “I want to be happy.” She points at his face, and Billy quickly schools it back into his usual scowl, unsure what the fuck it was doing before. “Like that.”

“You will be.” Billy nods, happy for the subject change. “Don’t worry about it, though. Probably break a lot of hearts in your day, I’m sure.”

“That’s the goal.” She laughs, repeating his words from earlier. 

But Billy pauses, narrows his eyes. Because he doesn’t want her getting it twisted. 

“That’s not,” and he’s turning to face her, “that’s not the only goal. Shouldn’t be the only goal. Hell,” he cuts out, “it shouldn’t even be your first goal.”

El’s looks over at him, and waits. Head titled as she considers him.

And Billy, for the hundredth time during this little chat, can’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t be the one doing this. He’s always been more of a cautionary tale than a lead by example kind of guy. 

But it’s a weird calm of clarity that runs through him. Because while his own life is Messed Up and beyond the reach of advice - he does know, without question, what El needs to hear right now. 

“Listen, kid,” he settles against the concrete, “you got your whole life ahead of you, okay? And powers or no powers, it doesn’t matter.” Billy shakes his head when El frowns back at him, “No, it doesn’t. Just, listen. You’re going to do so much, try so much, be so much.” Billy rambles, hands moving with him as he talks, “You’re gonna fuck up and figure it out and do it all over again. You just, you just gotta take care of yourself first, right? Don’t be afraid to put yourself first.”

But El’s still just sitting there, pressed up against the tile wall. Looking like she’s hearing him but not understanding. Like she wants to understand but gets lost in his words. 

Which. 

Billy is so dumb. So fucking dumb. Shakes his head because he should have thought of this sooner. 

So he’s reaching forward, putting his hand out. 

This thing always works better with contact, right?

The moment El grabs his hand, he can feel it. And he smiles. Should have done this fucking fifteen minutes ago. 

He closes his eyes, “Look, all I’m saying is you have so much time to find someone who will make you happy. But that’s not everything.” Billy feels the memory she’s sending him slowly form in his head, the shape of El’s room in the cabin comes into focus, the piles of comics, the wild patterned clothing thrown about the room, the small radio on her dresser cranked all the way up. “You’re pretty fucking awesome all on you own. Don’t forget that.” Billy continues, pretty sure he’s not even talking, but still feels El's electric smile. 

The radio is blasting an AC/DC song and Billy can’t help but raise his voice and sing along. Laugh loudly at El’s _inspired_ dance moves, watches her jam out and bop around barefoot in her room, stepping on all kinds of shit. Her curls bouncing when she dramatically tosses her head back and forth with the music. 

/ Don’t try to push your luck, just get out of my way /

They probably scream sing about the half song, the best duet Hawkins has ever seen, he’s sure. The final chords ring out over the static of the radio and El’s dropping his hand. Bringing them both back to the seafoam green tiled room with the harsh lighting. But she’s laughing. Finally. And Billy’s smiling, too. Surprised he’s a little out of breath. Jesus, he’s gotta start working out again to better keep up with these kids. 

Billy looks over at her, wide and easy and proud, “Hell yeah, kid. Rock on.” 

El flushes a little but moves to stand up. Reaches out her hand to help him up, too. 

Billy sighs when he stands up, brushes dust off his jeans. “Now, you ready to get out of this hellhole?” 

^

Waking up back in Hopper’s cabin is relatively easy. He’s not sure if he’s just getting better at this whole thing, that it just feels easier to navigate this time, or if El still has some juice left to snap him back into his own head and into the present. He blinks, once, twice, and everything comes back into focus. 

Hopper’s automatically leaning over, scooping El right off the couch, and into his arms. Probably dad-sensing that they’re past the worst of it, but waiting right there to provide the reassurance she needs. 

Billy pushes himself off the floor, steps away from the couch to give them their space. 

It’s not long after that El’s hugging his side quickly, and rubbing her eyes tiredly as Hopper shuffles her off into her own room. Guess an evening spent burning power lines and popping light bulbs and wandering through your own fucked-up headspace is pretty exhausting. And somehow, as he’s walking out, he’s shaking Hopper’s hand and they _never_ do that and before Billy can start panicking over it there’s a firm hand on the corner of his jacket. Gently pulling him towards the door. 

The ride back to the trailer is quiet. It’s late, far too late to be driving these county roads. And there’s probably a solid chance Steve has the early shift tomorrow. There’s soft music playing from the car radio, the station that Billy set the last time he was in the BMW. 

Billy looks over at Steve now, watches the slow rise and fall of his chest. It occurs to him that Steve hasn’t asked, and Billy hasn’t said anything. Unsure where to start. A little talked out, too. 

Instead he reaches across the console. Gently pries one of Steve’s hands from the steering wheel, guides it back over to his side. He places Steve’s hand over his knee, presses it there. 

Steve does this dumb little laugh but flexes his hand anyway. Settles into the grip. And Billy breathes out, slumps back against the passenger seat. 

^

They’re in the small kitchen. Haven’t bothered with any of the lights. And Steve turns to put the kettle on without even asking and Billy should have kissed him right then and there. 

Steve leans against the side of the counter. Arms crossed over his chest, looking casual as fuck. And Billy feels frozen to his spot, standing like an idiot in the middle of the small space. 

El’s words are bouncing around his head and Billy’s stupid brain can’t quite get past the fact that Steve’s still here. Back at the trailer. With him. Hasn’t made a single comment like he’s going back to his place anytime soon. Had thrown his jacket on the coat hook when he walked in. Opened the trailer door with a key on his own fucking keyring. 

And Billy can feel it. In his rapid pulse under his fingers. In the slight burn of his throat. In the absolute certainty he feels knowing he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. Never knew the name of that before. 

“El’s okay?” Steve asks, his soft voice filling in the space between them

Billy turns to face him, shrugs, “She’ll be fine.” 

Because she will be. More than fine. 

Steve nods. “And what about you?” 

Billy pauses, raises his eyebrows, “What about me?” 

Steve huffs a laugh, shakes his head a little, but beckons Billy closer. Tugs on the hem of his shirt until he takes a half-step closer. 

“How are _you_?” Steve asks softly. Genuinely. 

Billy’s learned that there’s some type of proximity Jedi mind trick Steve has mastered, puts it to good use getting Billy to talk even when, especially when, he doesn’t particularly want to. Which is dumb because Steve flexes it all the time, bats those big brown eyes and gets closer than anyone else. Right under Billy’s skin, most days. And just, well, Billy’s pretty sure Steve could ask him anything and who knows what would come out. Government secrets. Russian battle plans. Intricate D&D campaign plots. Fuck only knows. 

And that’s what Steve’s doing now, looking up at him and just waiting. Which is the only reason why Billy offers up, 

“El said something interesting when we were talking.” 

Mind tricked again, Billy sighs. Wanting to take it back but the words are already out there. Steve’s eyebrows are already raising. A dumb smirk lighting up his face. 

“Yeah? What’s that?” Steve presses. 

“She said,” Billy laughs shortly, feels the words unstick in his throat with ease. Laments that he’s lost the ability to hold any of this in anymore. Wonders if that’s _progress_. 

“She said that you make me happy.” 

And Billy gets to watch it. Watches Steve’s whole face blow out. The quick intake of breath. The wide fucking eyes. Then blush. So much fucking blush Billy can see it bloom hot and fast up over cheekbones even in the low light. And Steve’s smiling softly, but turning away. Dropping his head. Clearing his throat. 

Billy’s looking straight at Steve. Steve’s staring at the linoleum floor. 

Steve’s voice is miles away from normal when he asks, “And what did you say?” 

“Steve.” Billy frowns, voice flat. And at least that gets the dumbass to look back up at him. 

“Hm?” 

“Ask me again.” 

Steve shoots him a confused face. 

Billy steps closer. 

“Ask me how I am, again.” 

Steve shifts, in the way they’re always shifting around one another. Gravitating towards, making room for, creating space. He’s dropping his shoulders so he can steady himself more firmly against the counter, presses his lower back against it so his arms can be free, widens his stance. 

Billy doesn’t hesitate, steps right into the open space. 

“How are you?” Steve asks quietly, inches apart. 

Billy scrunches his nose like he’s considering it. He turns his head a little and looks out beyond the darkness of the kitchen, through the break in the counter that leads out towards the cramped living room. Thinks about how Steve will probably want to rewatch Blade Runner tomorrow night, thinks about how maybe this time he’ll be able to curl up on the couch, too. Next to him. Might just ask if Steve will stay. Steve will say yes. Do that weird fucking smile and half laugh thing like _of course, don’t be dumb_ and act like it’s not the biggest thing Billy’s ever asked of someone else. Thinks about soft hands through gnarly curls and smoke breaks on the deck and how words fall a little easier, how wide open his windows will stay, how it doesn’t feel like a risk when it already feels this safe. But mostly he thinks about his fucking trailer keys on Steve’s own goddamn keyring. 

Keys that unlock the front door. 

Because that feels important. 

It feels like shaking Hopper’s hand and yelling at the rugrats to eat their fucking vegetables when they’re over and watching Golden Girls with Joyce. It feels like the time Max said, _“Yeah, he’s like, part of the group or whatever.”_

Important. Important in the way Billy’s slowly realizing that he did all of those things. He did. This Billy. This new Hawkins is pretty fucking weird, Billy only has to focus back into the small space of this kitchen, the boy slouched against the counter next to him to illustrate that point. 

El might as well have stuck her whole hand into his chest and ripped out that beating organ nestled in the center, if only to prove that he has one now. 

He places soft hands on Steve’s shoulders. 

The answering response is immediate, big hands slide gently over his hips. Just to hold him there. 

“I’m,” Billy starts, pauses, shocked at how rough his voice sounds in the quiet. 

“Yeah?” Steve softly encourages, and waits. Endlessly patient. 

And Billy turns the word over in his head. Thinks it might burn coming out of his mouth. Like he'll get it wrong and this will all disappear. 

But he's done scarier things. 

So Billy stands just a little bit straighter, scoots himself closer. Feels an honest to god smile threaten to break across his face because apparently that also happens now. And Steve’s already smiling back, the bastard. Because he already knows, _fuck_. 

Billy laughs. Holds Steve’s gaze ‘cause he fucking means it. 

“I think I might be happy?”


End file.
